#haven’t written in a while so it might be a bit stale

[progenycursed]

Here’s a short story of a thought I kept rotating in my head while trying to fall asleep the last two days. This took place early in Hallownests’ history. But not to long after PK cast off his shell.

It was the early hours of the morning as the baker walked to work. The streets were unusually barren this morning. They were never crowded at this time, but there was always at least a few people. And the lumfly lanterns were dimer than he remembered. The little creatures all crowding to one side of their container.

He ran through the list of everything he was going to make that morning. The stonework of the street was uneven. With the few people in the street he should make less rolls for the day. Some of the buildings leaned to one side. Bad foundations.

He shook his head with a groan, his antenna twitching. Where we all these thoughts coming from? They never came this fast or jumped around this much. He didn’t even care about architecture. Maybe he wasn’t getting enough sleep, or maybe there was something in the water. Whatever it was, it needed to stop making his mind go so fast in all directions at once. It was giving him a headache.

The building next to him ended, leading to a small courtyard that was unusually bright. He quickly shielded his eyes. The sting of his night-vision being obliterated hurt. The lumflys must have been agitated about something. What would cause such behavior? He picked up his pace to leave the place the light faster. Then ran right into another person.

He stumbled around them. “My apologizes!” He glanced back, to see them just standing there. Rigid. Eyes wide, starring at something in the courtyard. For the first time in his life, curiosity won out over caution. His hand dropped a fraction.

And he immediately regretted it.

He had heard stories about The Pale Wyrm his whole life. Describing everything from its powers and deeds to temperament and previous size. Descriptions of its appearance and what it was like to stand before it varied wildly. Now he knew why. And God(the irony) how he wished he didn’t.

The Pale Wyrm stood(lay?) in the courtyard, facing another bug. His mind spun helplessly as it tried to make sense of the Higher Beings’ form. A long tail stretched out behind its body. No. That wasn’t right. There was no differentiation between the tail and body. The ‘body’ was just the part that was upright while the rest coiled behind it on the ground. The spinning wheels of his mind finally hit ground. It looked like a centipede reared back to attack.

But even that was inaccurate. Instead of the smooth segmented body covered in shell like every bug had, each segment overlapped the next. Sliding past and over the next like a broken shell sliding over a bloodied body. But there was no blood, no guts leaking out, no jagged pieces falling off or stuck in the wound. The body was broken but there was no damage.

And the segments. Where a centipedes had a countable number, it had hundreds. Hundreds of broken shell pieces sliding over each other. An unbreaking series of rings nested inside within themselves. Held together by an unseen force.

His whole body shuddered. What horror could survive such a broken shell? How was there not blood everywhere? How could it be perfect, but so very broken.

He didn’t want to see anymore, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Some insatiable curiosity demanded he continue. Pressing out from some deep part of his mind and squirming its way into every thought. Bringing all of them to his attention at once, but still focused on the Higher Being.

Spotting the malformed legs, he nearly lost his breakfast. Each broken shell piece was tipped with tens of tiny, razor sharp legs that dug into the ground, clawed into the air. It was like a nightmare creature. A monster with two many twisted, deformed legs. A broken body that could still move. He didn’t want to see it move.

The warped legs grew in size and malformations as they approached the head. Hanging off the ends of the broken shell pieces. Twisting around the body in nonsensical ways. Growing long, gangly, and segmented. Ending in-

“Great Wyr-“ he bit down on his mandibles. He dare not call out to his God. He did not want it turning its attention towards him.

As the legs approached the head, they slowly mutated into arms. Many, many arms. They lay limp or twisted against the body. Joints bent backwards, fingers twisting around each other. He clenched his hands, just to remind himself that his weren’t broken.

Then the broken shell abruptly ended, exposing a thinner, soft(?) flesh underneath. Ending just as quickly as it came to what he could only assume was the head of his God. But it didn’t have mandibles, antenna, or even a face. Eyes wrapped around the head, starring out in all directions with a piercing white glow. The shell was jagged and rough, small pieces of it sticking out at regular intervals. At the top, there was no smooth shell or antenna, but a ring of giant spikes made from the shell itself.

His eyes darted all over. Taking in the body horror that lay in his humble little town. Only for him to realize another terrifying aspect of the Higher Being.

It wasn’t move. At all. The eyes starred out unblinking, the malformed forest of twisted arms were unnaturally still, the broken mutated shell as unmoving as stone. It- it wasn’t even breathing. It was dead still, yet radiated life.

Every cell in his body was telling him to run, but his brain would not let him. A sickening combination of combating motives. In some distant part of his brain, he knew he was in pain. But he couldn’t focus on his body. It felt numb and distant and unimportant.

And somehow, the bug standing in front of that eldritch horror, looking right at it, only looked irritated. They were the parent explaining something to the child that just happened to be a god. He couldn’t hear what she was saying. She simply gestured around. Pointing to the ground, the walls, then motioned towards the surprising amount of people staring at them from the edges of the courtyard.

Before he could deduce the meaning, a piercing whisper cut into his mind.

“Would this be more ideal?”

He flinched, his hands shooting to his ears instinctually. His eyes never dropping from the Higher Being, to afraid to loose site of it for even a second. The other bug, her face only twisted into a grimace before shaking her head.

“Better. But still needs work. In a place with less people around,” she yelled. Her own head must have still been ringing as well, having to yell to even hear herself.

The Higher Being didn’t move, but he could tell something changed. It was looking at him, at everyone around it. The pressure in his mind surged against his skull. But he couldn’t move. He could only stand there. Frozen in place as a being so many times his greater just looked in his general direction. Every thought he ever had racing through his mind at once.

“Very well,”

the earth shook. Dust falling from the wall he hid behind. Something, somewhere crashed to the ground.

But the Higher Being was still motionless. An anchor in reality, unbothered by something so trivial as movement.

Then suddenly it all changed in an instant. The arms twisting, the broken shell contorting. The Higher Being bent over backwards, its head splitting open like a flower. Revealing a pit filled with teeth, that sliced through rock and earth as it dove into the ground. Arms, claws and fingers, bending in all the wrong ways as they flowed into the ground. The broken segments writhed around as it slowly followed. Thousands of tiny legs clawing at the ground and air, tearing up the earth. A giant mass of blades within blades adorning the end of the slithering mass sunk into the hole. Churning the earth as it shook and disappeared. The hole closing behind it.

His mind was so convinced the site should have had a deafening cacophony of snapping shell and breaking bones that he could still hear the phantom sounds.

The pressure in his brain slowly faded away with the rumbling. Thoughts quieting down to their normal level again. Bodily awareness slowly coming back to him.

His eyes stung, spots dancing at the edges of his vision. He was starring at the glowing God’s visage the entire time. He couldn’t even remember if he blinked. The taste of blood tainted his mouth from where he had been biting into his mandibles.

Everyone around the cleaning were coming to their sense too. Each with a different look painted across their faces. Awe, horror, confusion, or just staring off into the far distance. Unmoving aside from their heavy breathing.

His mind felt numb, his body shook. That was his god. The Higher Being that kept them safe, granted them thought and independence. Allowed them to live in this land without even asking for worship.

He went to church. He red the stories. He was as grateful as any other bug in Hallownest that their god was a benevolent one. But he NEVER wanted to lay eyes on The Pale Wyrm again. Never wanted the feeling of his mind expanding past what it was every other day.

Sounds of movement snapped him out of his stupor. It was the bug who had spoken to the God face to horrifying-face without batting an eye. Somehow now walking away, still only looking mildly irritated.

“H-how?” He stammered out as she got close.

Without so much as stopping she casually answered, “Stubbornness and spite.”

“W-why?”

“So he stops knocking things off shelves every time he speaks!” She yelled as she walked out of the courtyard.

[qveerthe0ry]

Naked in Manhattan

Summary: Marcus has never slept with a man, Dieter's willing to remedy that - written for @romanarose Pride Event Week 3: Sex/kissing Word Count: 7,730 Pairing: (college aged) Marcus Pike x Dieter Bravo Rating: 18+ mdni Warnings: coming out, discussions of sexuality, brief mentions of homophobia, oral sex(m), (lots of) hickeys, frottage, cum eating, armpit stuff Betas: OBVIOUSLY @for-a-longlongtime and @perotovar the loves of my life 💖A/N: I highly suggest listening to Naked in Manhattan by Chappell Roan before/while reading this. Totally got the vibes of this entire fic by listening to it on a walk one day

Dieter’s learned a lot in his five and a half years of college. Not really much about statistics or geology, but about people. He’s been around long enough to know that the sad little guy on his front porch steps, avoiding the party, and chain smoking cigarettes is having a rough go of it. 

“Hey buddy,” Dieter says, quietly, as not to startle the slumped figure. 

Marcus looks up at him through misty eyes and a cloud of stale Winston smoke.

“Hey.”

He’s not crying, but he’s definitely crying for help.

“You okay?” 

Dieter takes a seat on the step below him.

“Yeah, fine. Just needed air.”

Marcus gestures with the cigarette in his hand, then huffs out a laugh at the irony. 

“You’ve been getting drunk a lot lately.”

Maybe Dieter shouldn’t pry. It’s not unusual for his rented house to be filled with students coming and going at all hours of the day, between classes on weekdays or all day on the weekends. The cheap beer just shows up, as does the weed, and he doesn’t usually question it. 

But he’s closer to Marcus. So he notices more. He usually only sees him here on weekends. During the week he’s commonly found in the library or the student union, books sprawled out in front of him. He’s driven, pre-law, and has a better head on his shoulders than most people he hangs with. 

But Marcus has been at his place every night this week, either stumbling home in the wee hours of the morning or sleeping late on his couch or floor. It concerns Dieter in a way that surprises him. 

Usually it’s none of his business. 

“I haven’t had a sip,” Marcus tells him. 

And his voice doesn’t have that sharp, defensive tone Dieter was expecting. It’s more defeated than anything. 

“Yeah but what about last night?” 

Marcus shrugs. 

“And the night before? And every other night this week?”

“Just having fun,” Marcus mumbles through another drag of his cigarette. 

Dieterlooks around at his empty porch.

“Are you?” 

Then Marcus laughs. It bubbles up out of him in an almost terrifying way, and damn near immediately turns into sobs hidden behind his hands. 

“Fuck, dude, are you tripping?”

Marcus shakes his head. Dieter didn’t think so. He’s strictly an alcohol guy, won’t even touch weed. Something about the FBI and polygraph tests. Dieter finds it charming if not a bit manic. 

He keeps crying though, so hard he has to flick his cigarette out onto the dimly lit street so he can rub at his eyes. 

Dieter’s not sure what to do. Normally he’d offer someone drugs, but that won’t work. 

His hand hovers over Marcus’ shaking back for a few moments before he rests a heavy palm between his shoulder blades. 

He can feel the way Marcus’ breath shudders out of him, and tells him to start taking slow breaths. When it works, Dieter’s kind of amazed at how great he is at damage control. 

“That’s it man, just breathe.” 

Marcus nods, finally removes his hands from his face. He’s always been pretty in a very preppy way, with his perfect hair and teeth and his little dimples. He looks even prettier now, as much as Dieter kicks himself for that thought. His face is red and wet and his brown eyes are wider than they’ve ever been before. 

A few deep breaths in through his nose and out his mouth later, Marcus is sufficiently calm enough to speak. 

“I’m sorry.”

Dieter waves him off. 

“Don’t be. Looks like it felt good, I might have a cry later too.”

Marcus lets out a wet chuckle and shuts his eyes as one last salty little droplet brushes past his long eyelashes. 

“Everything okay at home? You’re not failing a class, are you?”

“No, no, nothing like that. It’s stupid.” 

“Girl problems?” 

Marcus laughs again, and Dieter startles a little, afraid he’s going to start back up sobbing at any moment. 

He doesn’t though. He’s quiet and avoiding Dieter’s gaze as he frantically gets another cigarette from his pack and lights it up. 

Dieter thinks he’s hit the nail on the head until Marcus takes a long drag of his cigarette and exhales. 

“I’m fucking gay.” 

Dieter opens his mouth in shock, or understanding, or maybe to try and say something, but Marcus continues. 

“This whole time I’ve been gay. I don’t even— I’ve had so many girlfriends. I think they’re just nice. I’ve never— I fucking hated sleeping with them. I thought it was because it was awkward, and we’re all inexperienced? It sucked, Dieter. And I thought all guys were curious about other guys, you know? They all talk about their dicks with each other, since middle school. I just thought— and then there’s this guy… in my intro to psych class. And he’s so nice and handsome and I just always want to hang out with him. And I didn’t know why. But I want to kiss him. And I never felt that way about any of my girlfriends. And now I realize I’ve just— I’ve just been gay this whole time.”

He’s out of breath when he quits talking, but he sucks down more of his cigarette anyway. Dieter isn’t quite sure what to say to him. Usually when someone comes out to him, it’s in a less… frantic manner, more proud than anything. But this poor freshman has been on a gay crisis bender all week and is more than a little traumatized by all of it, and it’s just different with Marcus. 

“That’s um… Sounds like you’ve been going through a rough time with it.” 

Marcus sniffles and nods. 

“Been through all five or whatever stages of grief already. It’s been a long week.” 

“Are you… Upset? That you’re gay?” 

Marcus’ head lolls back to thump against the porch railing. 

“No… I’m more upset that I didn't figure it out until now.” 

“You’re still plenty young, Marcus. You’re what— nineteen?”

“Eighteen. Skipped a grade.”

Jesus. Dieter feels even worse now about thinking he’s pretty when he cries. 

“See? You’re a spring chicken, dude. You figured it out plenty quick.” 

“When did you know?” 

Dieter chews on his lip, considers lying just for Marcus’ sake, but decides against it. 

“I pretty much always knew, honestly. But I mean— I was weird anyway, you know? Never really fit in or felt I had to play a certain part or be a certain way. It just made sense. Also, my dad always said I was as queer as a three dollar bill so… that helped.” 

Dieter steals the cigarette between Marcus’ fingers to take a drag himself. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Nothing to be sorry for, man,” Dieter tells him. 

Marcus stares at where Dieter’s lips wrap around his cigarette for a bit too long, and Dieter hands it back, if only to try and stop whatever it is that’s bound to happen next. 

But Marcus takes another drag himself, and his tongue peeks out to wet his bottom lip, and Dieter has never been called strong-willed. 

“What’s it like?” 

“What?”

“To be with a guy? What’s it like?” 

Dieter shrugs. 

“Depends on the guy.” 

Marcus sighs. 

“Are you uh— how do you like… it?” 

“Are you asking if I’m a top or a bottom?” 

Marcus’s face flushes a cute color in the yellow of the porch lights. 

“Both,” Dieter shrugs, “but I haven’t really done that with a lot of guys. Kind of a hassle, you know?” 

Marcus nods, but then his brow quirks up in question. 

“What do you mean? What do you— what do you do, then?” 

Dieter chuckles. 

“All kinds of things, babe.” 

He watches Marcus’ breath catch, the little stutter of his chest. 

“Would you show me?” 

Dieter rolls his eyes to distract them both from the fact that he really, really wants to. 

“C’mon, man. You don’t wanna fool around with me. I’m a loser. Go find a pretty finance boy to shack up with.” 

Maybe he’s less weak-willed than he thought. 

Marcus’ shoulders slump again, and christ, though, is he supposed to just let him leave like a kicked puppy? 

“There’s no intro to psych guy.”

It’s quiet, mumbled around his cigarette, and his eyes won’t leave his feet. 

“What?” 

“It’s you, okay? You’re my— gay awakening, or whatever. Why do you think I’ve been here all week?”

Dieter’s heart is hammering against his chest at that admission. This was not how he figured his Friday night would go.

“Free beer?” 

His joke doesn’t land. Marcus rolls his eyes. 

“It’s not like… I’m not like in love with you or anything. I just… always wanna see you. And you’re— well, you know. You’re hot. And you’re really nice to everyone. And I get this… I feel so weird when I’m around you, like, nauseous. Fuck, I’m sorry.” 

Marcus flicks yet another cigarette to the curb and makes to get up, but before Dieter can think better of it, he grips him on the shoulder to keep him seated. 

“That’s… actually really sweet, Marcus.” 

He scoffs, hides his face in his hands, and it’s so cute Dieter can’t help but smile. 

“Really— Usually people just want to fuck me, or use me for drugs.” 

Marcus groans a little, mortified, and his hands run back to mess up his pristinely styled hair. 

“Buddy, I’m serious. You’re a little charmer.”

Marcus looks up from his lap at that, scratching that neatly buzzed hair on the back of his neck, and his eyes are a little less embarrassed and a little more twinkly.

“You’re just saying that.”

Dieter shakes his head grinning. 

“No, it’s cute. Being genuine is never a bad thing.”

And the thing is, Dieter’s not lying. It’s possibly the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to him. But he’s toeing a very very fine line here, with himself. Because Marcus is so pretty, and so smart, and he’s soft and kind and he’s real but he’s young. 

And Dieter’s just a Super Super Senior, a total burnout, on his way to holding the world record for The Longest College Career. He’s 23 and he’s still undecided and he probably won’t even get  a college degree after all is said and done. 

But Marcus is looking at him with those big brown eyes, watching, calculating. 

“I just— I feel like you wouldn’t judge me. If I did the wrong thing. You know?”

“I wouldn’t. Anyone who would isn’t worth your time.”

Marcus huffs. Maybe Dieter can still save this. 

“Would you… tell me? What you’d do? What I should do?”

And just like that, Dieter is hopping right over that line with both feet. 

“Kiss me.”

Marcus’ eyes grow even bigger.

“Like, right now? Here?” 

“If you want to. That’s what I’d want you to do, to kiss me right here, like you couldn’t help yourself.”

And Dieter will be damned if he doesn’t do just that, surging forward to grab the sides of his face and press their lips together. 

His lips are so soft, and his face is smooth, and he’s eager, a bit too much, but it only adds to that coincidental charm. Dieter’s left to catch up, as Marcus swipes his tongue along the seam of his mouth and groans. 

Dieter pulls away. Marcus’ mouth gapes open, and his shoulders heave with his fast breaths. 

“You’re so… scruffy.”

Dieter chuckles, wipes Marcus’ spit from his lips and straightens out his mustache. 

“Not good?”

“No, god no, it’s really good.”

And then Marcus smashes their lips together again as a pathetic little sound escapes his throat. Dieter opens his mouth this time, lets Marcus slide his tongue around, a little violent, and this is all a bit too much for some front porch steps, isn’t it?

“Hey,” Dieter says softly, pulling away. 

Marcus’ brows draw up in confusion. 

“Sorry. I’m not a good kisser, am I?”

Dieter sighs, grabs one of Marcus’ hands on his face to link their fingers together. 

“It’s not that,” he says. 

He turns his face to kiss the center of Marcus’ palm and smiles when his breath hitches. 

“You really wanna do this with me?” 

Marcus is nodding before Dieter even finishes speaking. 

“Only if you really want it, too.”

Dieter squeezes his hand. 

“I do, really.”

Marcus smiles the sweetest little smile, and they both stand up, and Dieter doesn’t let his hand go. 

There’s music on in the house, and it smells like weed, and a few people are playing Nintendo in the living room. They don’t pay any mind as Dieter pulls Marcus up to the second floor, down the hall, and into his dimly lit bedroom. 

At least he’s kept it semi-tidy, he thinks, as Marcus looks around while he shuts and locks the door. His bed isn’t made. He’s sure Marcus makes his bed every morning before class. He hopes he doesn’t mind. 

He seems like he’s too nervous to mind, a jittery little thing standing next to his bed. He’s fiddling with the hem of his shirt, staring holes into the stained carpet, when Dieter moves to stand in front of him. 

“Are you nervous?” 

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

Dieter grabs both of his hands, and Marcus finally meets his gaze. 

“It’s okay to be nervous. As long as it’s good nervous.” 

He smiles and nods, but the worry in his brow is still there. 

“We won’t do anything you don’t wanna do, okay?”

That seems to soothe him more. 

“Can we kiss again?”

Dieter chuckles. 

“Of course we can.”

Marcus tips over into him, landing at the side of his mouth but quickly correcting course. He licks, but Dieter keeps his mouth shut, goading him to calm down. And he does, slotting his lips around Dieter's bottom one, and everything else slips into place with a soft, satisfied noise from his own chest. 

He lets go of Marcus’ sweaty hands to grab his hips instead, lithe and a little bony. He twitches at the touch, sighs, and presses his lips harder into Dieter’s. His hands search around frantically, jostling them both, until he finds the hem of Dieter’s sweatshirt and gets his hands underneath. 

“Slow,” Dieter mumbles. 

“Hm?”

“Not a race, Marcus. Take your time. Enjoy it.” 

Marcus nods, but gapes at him, like he’s not quite sure what to do next. 

“You wanna get comfy? Take your shoes off, sit down?”

Marcus nods again, but with a little direction, takes his shoes off and sits on the bed, criss-cross applesauce like the cutest fucking thing Dieter’s ever seen. 

“I want this to be— I want you to have a good time, feel good. So tell me if you don’t feel good… or if there’s anything you wanna try. Communication is like, super sexy, right?”

Dieter sheds his shoes and his hoodie as he speaks, thinks he catches Marcus’ eyes staring at the spot between his signature pajama pants and his shirt where it rides up. 

“Yeah… like, dirty talk?”

Dieter huffs out a laugh as he sits facing Marcus, crossing his legs, mirroring him to make him as comfortable as possible.

“Could be dirty talk, yeah. But just normal talk, too. It can be hot to talk about things like… how do you like to be touched? Where?” 

Marcus clears his throat and scratches the back of his head with a puzzled look on his face. 

“My— my dick?”

Dieter wants to laugh, but he can’t blame the guy. It sounds like the only experience he’s had so far is rushed fucks with high school sweethearts. 

“Okay, yeah, that’s a good start. So, for me, I like being kissed. Everywhere. I like feeling lips on my jaw and my neck and especially my nipples. You can bite, too.”

Marcus’ eyebrows raise, his plush lips forming a circular shape that Dieter tries and fails not to focus on. 

“Oh, yeah, okay. I— I like that too. I like when it’s… sloppy.”

Dieter hums, smiles, and nods.

“Anything else you like?” 

He watches Marcus bite his bottom lip and trace shapes on the bedsheets between them. 

“I don’t really know.” 

“That’s okay. Maybe we can figure it out together, yeah?”

His long eyelashes flutter as he blinks real slow, and he smiles. 

“Yeah. Thank you.” 

Dieter does chuckle then. 

“You don’t need to thank me. I’m gonna have a lot of fun with you.”

Christ, Dieter thinks, if his face gets any more red he might burst into flames. 

He kisses him, to save him from a fiery death. It’s a little awkward, with both of their legs crossed in front of them, but it’s easier to take their time like this. 

Marcus keeps it slow, so Dieter can finally lead. He licks into his mouth to feel his hard palate, and the way he whimpers and shivers in response is so delicious that Dieter can’t help but to do it again and again. 

He feels long fingers grip his thighs, soft at first, but squeezing harder when Marcus returns the favor and scrapes his tastebuds along Dieter’s sharp canines. 

There’s twin sighs when Marcus pulls away, only a little, eyes still shut. 

“You’re really fucking good at this,” he mumbles. 

Dieter hums and pecks his lips again, soft and wet. 

“Could kiss you all night.”

It’s true, even though there’s also a million other things he wants to do with Marcus. He tries to push those wants down by kissing him again, getting that plump bottom lip between his teeth and nibbling on it. The noise Marcus makes has his cock filling steadily with blood, and he knows it’s very obvious in his pajama pants, and he hopes Marcus doesn’t freak out.

Like he’s reading Dieter’s mind, Marcus’ hands slide so fucking slowly up his thighs. The movements are jerky, and he hesitates when just the tip of his finger brushes his cock. His inhale is audible, but his curious touch proceeds, just the lightest ghosting across his shaft. 

But then he’s pulling away, and Dieter feels on edge, bracing himself for the worst. 

“Can I touch it?”

Dieter exhales his relief.

“You can… Are you open to suggestions, though?”

Marcus nods, his slick mouth hanging open. 

“You could get on top of me, let me feel how much you like this, too. Drag it out, make me really want it.” 

He smirks as Marcus curses, closing his eyes and pressing his palm to the front of his jeans. But he nods, and uncrosses his legs, so Dieter does the same. 

And then, he’s got a lapful of Marcus, and he’s staring up into his glassy, beautiful eyes. 

“Like this?”

His hips shift, and his pert little ass grinds against Dieter’s cock while his own presses against his belly. 

“Just like that. Is this still okay?” 

Marcus doesn’t answer him, just devours his lips again as he rocks his hips and supplies them both with heady friction. His little whimpers are muffled, and his teeth are sinking into Dieter’s lip a little too hard, but in a way that makes his cock throb and pulse against the tight ass against it. 

Dieter’s hands find those lithe hips again, this time under his shirt. His skin is scalding to the touch and so fucking smooth. He digs his thumbs into his hip bones, drags little circles into them that make his hips jolt and stutter. 

Fuck. He likes this a lot. Maybe too much. He pulls himself away to reel it in a bit, maybe to check and make sure this is still alright—

“I’m so fucking hard,” Marcus breathes, “I’ve never felt like this.” 

And as he speaks, he’s ripping his t-shirt over his head and flinging it elsewhere. 

He’s gorgeous. A little scrawny but smooth, everywhere, just miles of tan skin that’s paler here where it gets no sun. Dieter wants to bite, and kiss, and suckle on every fucking inch of it. 

For now, Dieter uses all of his brain power to mumble a distracted ‘me too,’ as his hands moved upward to splay across all that hairless skin. 

Marcus’ stomach tenses and relaxes under his hands, and his chest heaves as Dieter cradles his ribs and brushes his thumbs over his nipples. 

“Does this feel good?” 

He circles them, flicks them a little bit, and wants to curl up and live in that little gasp Marcus makes. 

“Yes.” 

His head is leaning back between his shoulders, all raised and on-edge. That’s not what Dieter wants. He wants him relaxed, wants him all gooey and loose. 

Slowly, gently, Dieter tips him over, a hand on the back of his head until it lands on the pillows. The look in his eyes gets a little squirrely, and his breath picks up, and his nails scrabble at Dieter’s bicep. 

“Is this still okay?” 

Marcus nods quickly, but he’s slower with the verbal response. 

“I think so… just nervous.” 

“Still good nervous?” 

As if to prove it, he cants his hips up into Dieter and he’s rock hard against his thigh. 

“Still good nervous.”

Dieter’s own prick throbs and twitches as he hums. He lowers himself even more over Marcus, finds his racing pulse point and plants a hot, wet kiss there. 

“Can I kiss you here?” he whispers. 

His chin brushes Dieter’s cheek when he nods, and Marcus relocates his hands to reach up the back of his shirt. His palms are sweaty and hot as Dieter trails a wet line of kisses down to his prominent collar bone. 

His skin is so salty, and the heat from his body is making his cheap cologne smell even stronger, and Dieter feels high even though he hasn’t smoked in hours. 

“How about here, Marcus?”

He looks up at the younger man as he hovers his mouth above one tiny, pebbled nipple. He watches as his adam’s apple bobs in his throat, and smiles and impish grin when Marcus nods again. 

The groan he receives when he closes his mouth around it has him pressing his hips to the mattress for relief. One of Marcus’ hands finds Dieter’s hair and grips.

“Ah fuck.”

Just like that, the fingers loosen and leave his head and Dieter actually whines at the loss. 

“Sorry!”

“No, no, that was a good fuck. Love getting my hair pulled.”

Dieter glances back up at Marcus and watches as his wheels turn. 

“Oh… really?”

He chuckles as he places a sloppy kiss on his sternum, delighted at the way the muscles twitch under his lips. 

“Mmmhmm.”

Marcus sighs as Dieter finds his other nipple.  

“My ex-girlfriend hated it.” 

Dieter nips at the hard bud in his mouth and smirks when Marcus’ hips jolt up. 

“I like a little pain with my pleasure,” he explains. 

“I— can you bite me again?”

Dieter curses and obliges immediately, sinking his teeth into the meat of his pec this time. 

“God, I like that.”

He even earns another tug at his hair, and Dieter knows there’s gotta be a damp spot on the front of his pajamas. 

“That’s so good, Marcus. Keep telling me what you like.” 

Marcus squirms under him as he alternates a string of kisses and licks and bites down his torso. His nails scratch Dieter’s scalp in between tugging on his hair, and this is the most fun Dieter’s had in the bedroom in a long while. 

Marcus has a tiny bit of hair below his belly button, and it’s so fucking cute and whispy when Dieter runs his tongue along the path. But before Dieter can get the fly of his jeans unfastened, Marcus holds a hand over his. 

“Can I try on you now?” 

Dieter’s gaze flickers up to his face, and he looks so sweet, pleading with his big puppy eyes. 

“Yeah, yes, of course you can.”

Marcus smiles, and it’s sure, like he’s finally settled into this, and it makes Dieter’s apprehension fall away. 

It also makes him that much more horny, hard as ever when he lies down with his head on the pillows. He reaches down to readjust and watches Marcus clock the movement with a heady look.

“This is good for you, too?” 

His voice is breathy when he asks, when his hand slips under Dieter’s t-shirt. 

“Marcus, I’m loving this. I feel like a sexy experiment. Poke and prod me, babe.” 

And through all of this newness and anxiety and apprehension, Marcus laughs. It’s music to Dieter’s ears, watching his eyes light up as he chuckles. 

“Take this off then,” he instructs through his laughter. 

“Yes sir,” Dieter purrs, “bossing me around also does it for me. You’re a natural already.” 

“Y-yeah? I don’t— I’ve never been like that.”

Dieter fumbles to back track at the way Marcus’ confidence falls away. 

“It’s okay, that’s an advanced lesson. My bad. Just— Just do what you want with me. Explore. I’m all yours.” 

He talks as he sheds his shirt, and when the damned thing finally pulls free, he feels a little scrutinized under Marcus’s wide eyes. And he kinda really likes it. 

He settles back against the mattress, one arm above his head while the other reaches out to encourage Marcus to come closer. He does, only a little timid as his gaze rakes over every inch of his body. 

He settles between Dieter’s spread legs, one hand dipping the mattress next to him while the other lands hesitantly on his flank. His warm, sweaty palm feels the skin there, draws upward toward his chest, but takes a completely unconventional detour to his armpit. 

Dieter’s cock throbs. This is so fucking weird and so fucking hot. 

Marcus’ jaw drops slack as his fingers card through all of his armpit hair, and it tickles a little bit, but mostly it just makes Dieter’s arousal grow heavy in his groin, burning. 

Before Dieter can really assess what’s going on, or encourage him, or tell him how fucking hard he’s making him, Marcus leans down to capture his lips in his own. 

Dieter groans and scrabbles to grip his waist, arching his hips for any relief and finding it against the front of Marcus’ jeans, a hard line wrapped in denim that twitches against his own. He moans, low and long, as he twirls the thick hair between his finger and thumb. 

And then his hand is gone, and Dieter’s quite disappointed, but he can’t just say that, can he? He weighs the pros and cons of telling Marcus not to stop as the other man trails his lips down the patchy stubble on his jaw, and bites the sensitive skin on his neck. 

Maybe he should tell him. That’s a good lesson, right? How to take feedback, good or bad. But ‘hey keep stroking my armpit hair’ is a bit startling, isn’t it? 

He’s so distracted by the inner turmoil that he doesn’t realize the path Marcus’ has taken until hot breath ghosts that bit of fat between his tit and armpit and then he sniffs, and groans, and licks up all the hair while he presses his cock down into Dieter’s own and Jesus Fuck—

He quickly finds purchase in Marcus’ hair and curses, grinds his hips back up into him with what he hopes is encouraging words. But forgive him if his brain is a little bit completely scrambled. 

Marcus bites just under his patch of armpit hair, burying his nose in it once more, and these primal sounds he makes are vibrating through Dieter’s chest. All he can do at this point is lie back and take it and succumb to the fact that this is definitely altering his brain chemistry for the rest of his life. 

It all stops rather abruptly, though, and two hot hands grab Dieter’s hips hard, pushes them down into the mattress as Marcus arches away from him. 

“I might— I might come.”

Dieter blinks his bleary eyes open to look at the panicked man, who’s squeezing his eyes shut and biting his lip. 

“It’s okay if you do. You can have me all night.” 

“Fuck— Shut up, Jesus Christ.”

Dieter huffs, scratches at his wet armpit, and patiently waits for Marcus to settle down. He could probably come that way too, to be honest, with that pretty boy’s tongue lapping at his underarm and their cocks grinding together. 

Marcus’ eyelashes flutter open, and Dieter smiles at him softly, careful not to move or touch. He looks like a hair trigger, sweaty and panting already, with a really fucking hot damp patch soaking through the crotch of his jeans. 

“Sorry. I think I’m good— wait, sorry, was that weird?”

Dieter allows himself to place one of his hands on Marcus’ own, where it’s still gripping tight to his hip bone. 

“It was weird in the hottest way possible.” 

Marcus shakes his head at himself and closes his eyes again. 

“I’m dead serious. I didn’t know how sensitive I was there. You’re teaching me things. That’s super hot.”

Marcus sighs. 

“It’s just… I like the hair. And your deodorant smells nice.”

He pries his eyes open, like he expects Dieter to be disgusted, but his confession only makes his cock jump very prominently in his pajamas. 

“Doesn’t taste very good, though.” 

And now Dieter is laughing, and tugging Marcus back down, mumbling ‘prove it’ and shoving his tongue into his offensively chemical-flavored mouth. 

It’s okay though, he just licks and licks until the taste has dissipated and Marcus is letting go of the death grip on his sides. His mouth follows a much more predictable route, this time, and Dieter watches his every move as those pretty lips wrap around his nipples, one and then the other, until he’s biting and Dieter is whimpering and asking for more. 

“You can leave marks. I like ‘em.” 

Marcus curses against his sternum and obeys, so fucking obedient, suckling Dieter’s skin and rolling it between his teeth. Looking up at him, his eyes look so determined, all dark and heavy, especially when he pulls away to admire the bruise he’s left. 

“More. Want to see you all over me in the morning.” 

“Fuck, Dieter. How’d you get so good at— at talking like that?” 

Dieter chuckles, then hisses when Marcus sucks the skin on his belly into the sharp edges of his teeth. He’s looking up with an expectant quirk of his brow.

“I just say what’s on my mind,” he answers.

Marcus hums, and Dieter places his hand on his jaw to feel it working, a third mark blooming bright red on his hip. 

“What’s on your mind?” He asks. 

A fourth mark, this one deeper than the rest, right above the waistband of his pants, as Marcus thinks. 

“I want your cock in my mouth.”

Said cock jerks wildly, disrupting the tent in his pajamas, and Marcus has the audacity to smirk. Dieter lets his thumb trace that wet, swollen bottom lip and doesn’t miss the little whine that Marcus tries to hide. 

“Will you teach me?” 

It’s now that Dieter realizes he’s created an absolute monster, with Marcus looking up at him all wide-eyed, batting those long eyelashes. He knows what he’s doing, and it just makes it all so much worse. Or better. Both, really. 

He clears his throat to try to gather his bearings before he speaks. 

“Yeah, I’ll teach you. Pull it out for me.” 

Dieter watches as his breath hitches, and he eyes the tent in Dieter’s pants with an array of emotions washing over his features. There’s hesitation for sure, as he toys with his waistband. But he’s licking his lips, and taking a big deep breath as he tugs them down Dieter’s thighs. 

And then he’s staring at his cock, swaying in the breeze, and Dieter thinks this would be much less intense if penises weren’t so offensive and in your face. 

“Pretty,” Marcus mumbles, and it makes him giggle. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, it’s— I like it.” 

“Thank you. That’s very sweet.” 

Marcus rolls his eyes but smiles. 

“I can touch it?”

“Yeah, of course. Anything you want. Go at your own pace.”

Maybe it’s cliche, but as soon as Marcus’ hand wraps around his cock, Dieter is done for. Fuck, it feels so good, the way his movements are gentle and calculated, the way he’s being so attentive for his first time, exploratory. His free hand cradles Dieter’s sac, his thumb tracing the seam, and it’s alarming how close this is getting him. It’s so intimate, and genuine, and it’s so hot that he gets to be here for Marcus’ first time. 

Marcus squeezes him tight and strokes, once, from base to tip. He thumbs at his frenulum, slippery with pre come, then lifts that to his lips. It’s like slow motion when he watches him poke his tongue out to taste, and he closes his eyes and hums. 

“Better than the deodorant, for sure.” 

And Dieter’s cock bobs as he laughs. 

“That’s a relief.” 

“I’ve never tasted my own before,” Marcus says. 

“No?” 

“Mm-mm. Seemed… gay.” 

And he laughs at himself, but his face inches closer, and in an instant his tongue is flicking out to lap up more of it, straight from the source. 

Dieter gasps at the contact, so sudden. His taste buds are rough against his slit, in a good way, and he has to cradle Marcus’ neck to reel himself in. 

“That’s so good,” he whispers, “keep doing that.” 

And he does, little kitten licks to the sensitive head of his cock, looking up at him from under those long eyelashes. Dieter groans and closes his eyes because if Marcus keeps looking at him like that, he will come before he can have any fun with him. 

Then, in an instant, he’s completely enveloped by warmth and wetness, too fast, and he opens his eyes at the same time Marcus gags and coughs and pulls off of him. 

“Jesus, Marcus, take it slow.” 

He coughs more, with brow all furrowed and frustrated, and Dieter smooths his hair off of his forehead. 

“Are you alright?” 

Marcus clears his throat as he nods. 

“Yeah, sorry, I can’t— I thought that would be easier.”

Dieter huffs, sits up a bit and leans on his elbow so he can see him better. His eyes are watery and not in a sexy way this time. He pets Marcus’ hair a bit, hoping to soothe him, but the redness doesn’t fade from his cheeks. 

“You don’t have to take it all, that’s no fun, choking like that,” he says, “are you sure you’re okay? We can stop.” 

“No! No— I don’t wanna stop. I’m just embarrassed.”

God, he’s so fucking sweet. 

“Don’t be embarrassed. We’ve all been there. I threw up on the first dick I sucked.” 

“Gross, dude.”

“I’m just saying, it could be way worse. Nothing to even be embarrassed about.” 

Marcus sighs and hides his face in the crease of Dieter’s hip. 

“Seriously, I’m still so hard I could shatter diamonds. You’re so fucking hot, it doesn’t matter if you choke a little.” 

He feels Marcus’ teeth on the skin of his hip before he sees his jaw moving. He bites and sucks and it’s another beautiful piece of him he’ll get to take from this experience. 

“That’s it. It’s all about the recovery. Fuck, Marcus, your mouth feels so good on me. Everywhere.” 

Dieter lifts his hips up to encourage him to bite more, mark him up all over. He follows eagerly, until there’s little love bites scattered across the thin skin over his hip bone and his cock is weeping for attention. 

Marcus looks up at him, finally, as he hovers just above his prick.

“Can I try again?”

Dieter hums and cards his fingers through his thick brown hair. 

“Play until you win, babe.” 

He’s much more careful, this time. He takes the head into his mouth and sucks, lets his tongue lather and swirl around it as his hand keeps his dick in place. He’s gorgeous, with his cheeks hollowed out and his eyes shut in concentration. 

“Yeah, just like that, fucking perfect.”

Marcus whimpers around his cock, and drool is starting to leak from the corners of his mouth and drip down Dieter’s shaft. 

“Move your hand a bit, jerk me off while you suck on it.”

He follows the direction so well, letting his hand draw up to meet his lips, then back down, over and over, and Dieter can feel his gut growing hot and tight. His tongue is working him relentlessly, and he’s never really had a partner use theirs so much, but the frantic swirling and flicking has his head spinning. 

“You’re amazing,” Dieter breathes, “making me feel so good.”

At the encouragement, Marcus braves another inch of his cock. He starts to bob his head up and down, following his lips with his fist, and the breaths through his nose get heavier. Dieter babbles a bit, just encouraging words as Marcus works him dutifully, trying with all his might not to thrust up into his hot, sloppy mouth. 

But then Marcus looks up at him with his pretty brown eyes and groans around the cock in his mouth and it’s too much. 

“Fuck— fuck, Marcus, let me go.” 

Marcus does, as quickly as he can, panting when his mouth is finally free. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Dieter huffs. 

“Nothing, you’re perfect, gorgeous, beautiful. I just don’t wanna come yet.” 

“Oh.”

The little cock drunk smile he gets is too cute, and Dieter tugs lightly on his hair to get him to crawl back up for a kiss. He tastes like pre-cum, and his nails bite into the heated skin of Marcus’ back for purchase. 

“How are you feeling? Still gay?” 

Marcus laughs against his lips. 

“The gayest I’ve ever been.” 

Dieter collapses back on the pillows to look up at him. 

“Really though, are you still into this?” 

Marcus nods, presses his hips into Dieter’s thigh to swipe away any last remaining doubt. 

“Alright, next and final lesson. Get those tight little jeans off.”

He’s so quick to obey, and Dieter tries not to gawk at how much bigger that wet spot has grown just below his fly. He shakes himself out of it and gets his pajama pants completely off his legs. 

Marcus is so fucking hot, jesus, Dieter feels like he’s pushing his luck having him here in his bed. So lean and long, and his cock is uncut and curves a bit to the left, and he’s still so hard. 

“Get beside me, face me.”

And Marcus looks right at home like this, laid out in his bed, with his bicep bulging from propping his head up on his hand. 

“What’s the lesson?” 

Dieter smirks at the eagerness. 

“I’m gonna jerk us off together.”

Marcus raises his brow. 

“Like, at the same time?”

Dieter hums his affirmative, reaches a tentative hand out to cup Marcus’ pert little asscheek, and chuckles when he twitches. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll save that for another time. If you want.” 

“Shit, yeah, okay.”

And isn’t that gonna be fun? The thought makes Dieter’s cock throb and jerk and he shuffles to close the distance so their pricks line up together. 

“Is this okay? Like this?” 

He looks up from their cocks to watch Marcus’ jaw go slack. 

“Oh god, ‘m not gonna last at all.”

Even as he says it, he’s wrapping his own hand around both of them and squeezing, groaning at the feeling and bucking his hips so they slide together. 

“I don’t want you to last, I want you to feel good.” 

Dieter lets his hand join the fun, covering what Marcus can’t, and his cock jumps in their combined hold when Marcus whines.

“I do, I— fuck, I really do.” 

“Kiss me?”

He’s cut off by Marcus’ lips, all swollen and hot against his own. Marcus moans as soon as their tongues meet, and he starts shaking like a leaf. His hand squeezes harder around their pricks, works them faster, and Dieter can feel each and every twitch of his dripping cock. 

He’s so frantic with it. His breathing whistles fast through his nose, panting into his mouth, and every other exhale is a desperate little noise. It only takes a few dozen strokes for Marcus to fall apart.

“Gonna come— I’m coming, Dieter—”

He gasps as it washes over him. Dieter feels his hot, sticky cum splash over his own hand and his cock and his stomach. Marcus hides his face in the crook of Dieter’s neck and bites as it courses through him. It sends a hot white spark down his spine, and what little filter he’d maintained throughout the night completely short-circuits.

“Shit, that’s it. So fucking good, coming all over me— Fuck, Marcus, you’re hot when you come. You feel so fucking good.”

Marcus whimpers through his aftershocks as Dieter fills his ears with whatever filth he can muster. When it’s too much, and Marcus has to slide his spent cock from their joined hands, he doesn’t let go of Dieter. He helps, with the slick aid of his cum, and Dieter topples over the edge with a growl and Marcus sucks another mark into his overheated skin. 

It’s blinding, it’s his favorite orgasm he’s ever had for sure. Marcus gasps when the first streak of his spend shoots all over his smooth stomach. 

“Fuck yes,” he sighs, exerted but intrigued as Dieter fucks their fists. 

His cum mixes with the stains Marcus already left on his blanket, slowing to a trickle just as Marcus’ grasp loosens. Even when he’s empty, Dieter can still feel the orgasm buzzing through his body as he tries to regain his breath. 

Marcus finally looks up from the scene of the crime and Dieter wants to take a picture of the fucked-out look on his face, his messy hair, his spit-slick lips and flushed face. But he can’t, so he kisses him instead, closing his eyes so maybe he can burn that image into his memory for eternity. 

It’s lazy, so much slower and softer than the way Marcus kissed when he was all keyed up. 

Shit.

Dieter’s in for it. He’s always had an addictive personality, and having Marcus in his bed has been stronger than any fucking drug he’s tried before. 

He whimpers when Marcus pulls away, chasing his lips just for a moment before he reels himself back in. 

He looks down at the mess he’s going to promptly ignore, thinks about how far away the bathroom closet is with all the towels. But then one slender finger is swiping through the cum puddle between them, and lifting to his face, and Dieter devours. 

Marcus chuckles at the desperate noise Dieter makes as he swirls his tongue around to lick up every last drop. 

“How do we taste together?” 

Goddamn, Marcus is much more suave after an orgasm. 

“Like we were made for each other.” 

Christ, he needs to get himself together. His brain is just so fucking fuzzy and light.

Marcus doesn’t run for the hills, though. He giggles, and dips that same finger into their mess again. He brings it up to his own lips this time, sucking it inside his mouth and pulling it out clean. 

There’s a slight grimace as he rolls it around in his mouth. 

“Not as sweet as you were earlier.” 

And Dieter laughs, brushes his two cleanest knuckles against the skin of Marcus’ hip. 

“It’s an acquired taste.” 

Marcus nods, and looks down between them, and some of that lightness in his features fizzles out. 

“Hang on— here, use these.”

Dieter hands him his discarded pajama pants, and they use one leg each to tidy up their hands and stomachs and cocks. Then Dieter balls them up to swipe at his sticky blanket as best as he can. And it’s all so quiet, as their breathing has evened out, and fuck, what if Marcus has some crazy post-nut clarity after this… heavy situation? 

He’s staring at the bedroom door when Dieter looks up to face him. 

“Should I uh… go… now?” 

Dieter sighs and finally gets his freshly wiped hand on Marcus’ skin, colder now where all the sweat has cooled. 

“Personally, I would like it if you stayed. Cuddling after sex is… well, I like it a lot. Some people don’t… it’s okay if you don’t. Whatever you’re comfortable with. This was probably a lot for y—”

Marcus cuts off his rambling— thank god— by burrowing his face in Dieter’s chest and tangling their naked legs together. They both release two huge twin sighs, and Dieter’s instantly soothed by the weight against him, and the lithe fingers stroking his back. 

Dieter can’t help it, he tucks his chin and plants a kiss to the crown of Marcus’ head. He drowns in the scent of sweat and cheap shampoo and feels so grounded for the first time in a very long time. 

Marcus hums, and Dieter pulls him in tighter, swipes his palm over the curve of his tiny asscheek. 

He clears his throat. 

“I don’t have any plans tomorrow…” 

Marcus lifts his head, and he looks so sleepy but so satisfied. 

“So we can stay up all night? You can— could you show me more things?” 

Dieter chuckles and kisses his lips to hide how relieved he feels. 

“Was gonna see if you wanted to catch a movie or something. But I think I like your idea better.” 

“Oh— a movie sounds good! I mean, it would be chill.” 

Dieter huffs. 

“Split the difference, we’ll watch a movie here while I eat your cute little ass?” 

Dieter actually feels his limp cock twitch against his thigh, and tries to hold back a self-satisfied smirk. 

“Yep. Yeah, let’s do that instead.” 

Dieter kisses him, this time just because he can. 

“Get some sleep first, okay? I’ll be right here.” 

The look of comfort on Marcus’ face makes his chest burn and ache. His droopy eyelids close as he smiles, and his head drops to Dieter’s splayed out arm. 

He just watches, for a little while. Lets himself count the deep, even breaths Marcus takes and feels them on the skin of his bicep. 

His arm is gonna go numb in about two minutes tops, and he’ll cherish every pinprick until he drifts off.

[slasherrabbitmadness]

Bo Sinclair x Female Reader

Sinclair College AU Part 3

Part 1 Part 2

Woo, NONCON ELEMENTS! This was written by demand. Seriously, bug me to write the AUs if you want to read them lol

Underthecut - NSFW, NONCON do not read if you do not like noncon, Dark fic, Vaginal sex, brief mention of anal, Bruises, creampie and Brief mentions of pregnancy

You shivered as Bo brought the blankets over you, cooing at how tired you must be, how you'll need all the rest you can get.

The dull ache throbbed throughout your body. Your toes hurt from curling them repeatedly, your hips hurt, from Bo's near incessant pounding and nails digging into your hips. Your breasts were sore, nipples teased and played with so long, his stubble scratched along your valley. Your neck was bruised, a feint handprint along the front mixed in with hickeys. Your lips sore and dry, lip gloss smeared around your mouth.

Dried tears over your cheeks, into your hair, onto the pillow.

"Hey, c'mon Sweets." Bo leaned in to kiss your cheek, making you squeeze your stomach in response, "Hey, you're good." He sat next to you, lightly patting your cheek, "Y'did so good for me, hm? So perfect." He leaned in, lips inches from your cheek, "Just like you've always been."

Bo looked down at you, bit his lower lip as your eyes remained vacant, body reacting out of an impulse to his touch, but emotionally wrought.

"You can rest for a lil while but then we gotta clean ya up, Sweets."

You cringed at the nickname, what was once a cute endearing term made your stomach turn.

"Rest for a bit, then we shower." Bo leaned in to kiss your temple, kissed your cheek ad a chaste kiss over your sore lips.

You curled into yourself, letting the motel blanket, stale smell, and lull you into a weak state of slumber.

Bo walked over to the chair, grabbing his crotch as he sat down, letting his chub rest against his thigh. He tapped his foot on the cheap carpeted floor. He leaned back to rummage through his stuff on the table, grabbing a joint and lighting it up.

He took a hit, leaned back. He listened, listened as the cars outside drove by, tires hissing along the wet pavement. A random dog barking, its deep thundering barks upsetting another tenant enough he heard a woman shouting for the thing to shut up.

The rain hit along the window, repeated taps along it felt commoning to Bo. The dull noise helped with his racing thoughts.

Bo wanted to curl into you, wrap his arms around you, kiss along your shoulder, laugh as you playfully reprimand him "Bo, stop! Your stubble is tickling me!" He smiled, "Bo, least you could do is just kiss me."

He coughed, smoke sputtered out through his lips. A deep hum rumbled from his chest, the image of you and him on the bed, curled into each other came so easily. Just like that one Valentine's day...

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bo held you in his arms, hand running up and down your back. He kissed your lips, groaning as you let him slip your tongue in.

He cupped your cheek, tilted his head to deepen the kiss. Your moans spurred him on, his thigh pushed in between your legs, spreading you out for him.

"Bo...again?" You asked in a whisper.

"You know you got another round in ya." He kissed you again as he angled his cock at your entrance, grunted as his cock head was met with your warmth. "Ah, sure feels like you're ready." He pushed in, his hands grabbing your wrists to pin them above your head.

Deep intimate strokes have you cantering into him, "Bo..."

"Daddy, c'mon you know how we do this."

"Daddy, please, I want more."

Bo pulled out all the way and bucked forward, a quiet laugh as you squirmed under him.

He picked up speed, huffing and moaning above you. Placed sloppy kisses along your neck, sucking and biting, groaning at the fresh bruises forming along the skin.

"Daddy, ah, more." You freed your wrists from his grasp and ran your hands down his back, resting your hands on his ass. You pushed him further into you, "Daddy please, deeper in me."

His cock twitched in response, "You like when Daddy fucks you? You just need me fuckin' you always."

He kissed you as you moaned in response, hands traveled to the back of his hair, fingers threading through his brown hair.

Bo's hips grew sloppy, your pussy clenched around him as he pushed in deeper and deeper. He wanted to scream out his release, get another call from the front desk. Telling him that there have been noise complaints coming from his room.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him in, his movements became shallow, you felt his cock throb within you.

Bo moaned into the kiss, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself into you. He grinned as you sobbed under him, mewling out praises, whimpering how full he was making you feel.

"Daddy, you keep coming in me, and it might just take." He wheezed, running a hand over his forehead to brush away the sweat.

"Would that be such a bad thing?" His smile fell as you gave him a mortified look.

Reality hit him, "Bo, I can't get pregnant. I'm only in my second year of University! I need my degree first. How in the hell can I have a baby? I can't afford it, I can barely afford my classes."

He groaned at your rambling, he knew you were right, knew that realistically you could never afford a baby, that a degree gave you and your children together with a better shot.

He hummed in agreement, pulled you back into him, "Shh, we'll figure it out later." He kissed your forehead, growled as you nipped at his neck.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bo sat up and walked over to you on the bed, "C'mon, we need to shower now."

You remained still, eyes closed, face turning into the pillow.

Bo pulled off the blankets, a hard breath through his nose as he took you in. He lifted you into his arms, pressed kisses to the top of your head, mumbling at how sweaty you smelled and tasted.

He walked into the shitty motel bathroom, a far cry from the last time you ever shared on together on Valentine's day.

The yellow light and avocado green sink, toilet, and tub held a nasty hue.

Bo looked at himself in the mirror as he held you, his eyes held a light pink hue (the weed), bags under his eyes, his hair sticking to his forehead. He grinned taking in the bruises along his shoulders and chest. A mixture of teeth marks and fists.

He set you down, an arm around your waist to steady you.

"Okay, Sweets, gonna get you clean. How many days has it been?"

You swayed in your spot, eyes downcast.

"About five days, best to get you clean." He leaned in to place a sloppy kiss on your cheek.

He turned on the water, the steam rising up to the ceiling. "Let's step in."

The water felt euphoric on your skin, washing away the last five days of bodily fluids. Bo's dried saliva, the dried semen on your front, the bits you couldn't fully wipe off your face. The hot water kissed your bruises, a pleasant ache from the hot touch.

You stared at the yellow shower tile, steadying a breath as Bo rubbed his hands over your body. You let your mind race, let it fall into a day more pleasant thoughts.

You thought of Vincent, his arms around you, holding you close, outside the library. Tears spilled as you cursed yourself, wishing you blew off Dan to accompany Vincent. Wanted to sleep in Vincent's arms like you had been almost every night since you started dating.

"Sweets?" Bo patted your cheek, "You good?"

You snapped your attention to Bo, his thumb whipping away your tears, "Might be in the shower but your red eyes are giving you away." He kissed you, tongue running along your lips.

Bo retched back, hand raised up to his cheek, he looked at his fingers, the blood trailing down.

You held a feral look, your eyes hed a feral glare, your nails with blood being cleaned by the running hot water.

"I. Want. Vincent!" You punctuated each word. Teeth bared to the tall man in front of you. You looked through him, not taking in his baby blues, his confused expression.

Bo gave you a booming laugh, you jumped as he grabbed your wrist, "Five days of this and you still want him. I thought I could get you cock drunk on me."

Be spun you around as he pushed you against the tile. Your front pressed into the slimy uncleaned surface had you gagging.

You steadied a breath again, letting your mind race to Vincent. Not Bo poking his cock along your entrance.

"Y'know, you should be pregnant by now, I think the other whole is a little lonely." You fought back a scream.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vincent ran through the campus, running up to the Flamingo dorms. He had no time to think about how silly it was that the campus dorms have animal mascots.

Brahms burst through the dorm's door. Pulling on his jacket as he scratched his stubble.

Vincent ran up to him, knowing his girlfriend was a friend of his own, "Hey, Brahms, you seen Y/n? Has your girl seen her?"

"No, Princess hasn't seen her."

Vincent would normally smirk at Brahm's nickname for his girl. It was fitting, Brahms did treat her like a Princess. The gifts, the lavish vacation he took her on, she was even invited to a family wedding.

"She did mention that she has yet to get ahold of her though, apparently Dan is upset that they missed their study dates."

Vincent slapped his leg in frustration.

"I haven't seen her in five days. I've talked with my brother but I haven't seen him either." Vincent breathed in heavily, he staggered back.

Brahms reached for him, steadying his friend, "Bo probably took her."

Vincent's eye went wide.

"I mean, think about it, is it that hard to get to that conclusion. You fuck her, start dating her, flaunt how good you've both been to each other. Bo's always been, Bo. Masking his insecurity with macho bravado, hitting on pretty girls, and when they take the low-hanging fruit it fuels his ego. For a day, at least. And the one girl who managed to escape his low-level bullshit falls into his brother's arms, of course, he's pissed."

Vincent clenched his fist, "You justifying my brother?"

"No," Brahms stood up straight, arms over his chest, "Remember when I punched him for bugging my Princess? He tried to jump me a week later. For me," Brahms gave Vincent a cocky smile, "Was nothing. I can only imagine if he had anger towards a female."

Vincent's blood went cold at Brahms words. "Y'sure?"

"Hm, I am an actor! I observe people constantly, I am not known as the best method actor this school has ever had for nothing!" Brahms puffed up his chest, his cocky smile faded as he watched Vincent's shakes become near tremors.

"Look, Vincent, Have you been to the police, her parents, sibling? or whatever?" Brahms leaned closer to Vincent, a sympathetic hand remained on his shoulder.

"Yeah...her parents said...she sounded a little shaken up but fine. They said it was stress. The police are useless."

Brahms laughed, "When are they useful?" He frowned when Vincent shot him a glare.

"Okay, no joking, though not a joke, Look, I'll get Princess later and us three can go around asking for her, okay. I'll even ask my drama teacher to put pressure on the campus police."

Vincent nodded a weak defeated nod.

His hope had been diminishing day by day. He missed class and called into work. The past five days were spent on you, finding you, wanting you back in his arms. The sick feeling in his gut knew you were being held by him...the other half of him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You sat on the bed, your clothes back over your, the warmth they offered little comfort.

"Okay, Sweets, we're gonna get going, alright?" He nudged your shoulder.

"I need to get back to class, Bo. I need to finish my degree." You said lifelessly as if on autopilot.

"You will don't worry." He kissed the crown of your head, inhaling your scent. "Sweets you smell so damn good. So clean for her Daddy."

Your throat felt tight, the urge to barf suppressed as you pinched yourself.

"Why did you cheat on me?"

Bo looked down at you, head cocked, "Cheat on you?"

"Yes."

"I never cheated on you."

"Don't fucking lie to me, Bo!"

He stepped back, hand running over his bandaged cheek. He composed himself, leaning over you, "You better watch your tone." He growled.

The past five days had gotten to you, a resentment, and anger bubbled to the surface, "You date me, Cheat on me, on valentine's day. And you expect me to never be angry, never be upset. And you get mad when I cheat on you. fuck you, Bo. I meant nothing to you. You're nothing to me."

You screamed as Bo shoved you down onto the bed, his large hands pressed hard into your arms, he huffed above you, "Nothing to me? Did I not just spend the last five days lovin' you? Being intimate with you? Shared the most wonderful experience two people together could experience together?"

He shook you as you failed to answer, "Hm? That Valentine's day meant everything to you. This meant everything to you." Bo kissed your tears, gritted his teeth and he shook your head under him.

Bo cheated, he knew this. Knew why he cheated. Self-sabotage as always.

How could someone so sweet, caring, friendly, and loving as you fall for him, why would you? Bo was awful, downright awful, his own parents even said so.

"You'll see, Sweets, you'll see our love grow within you."

You sobbed under him, you murmured Vincent's name, repeating it over and over, as if you said it enough he'd burst through the door, saving you from Bo's hell.

[today-only-happens-once]

out of focus

title: out of focus

word count: 3955

summary: 

The actions of a Fire Nation admiral during a meeting causes some problems for Sokka. The words of that admiral causes some problems for Zuko. They try to take care of each other. 

“What did the admiral mean,” Sokka blurts out without really thinking about it, “when he talked about insubordination?” 

Zuko freezes, the rag half-out of the bowl and his other hand still bracing Sokka’s (not quite holding it… far too gentle to be holding it). “What—uh. I, uh.” Zuko stops. Takes a breath. Tries again. He still doesn’t look up at Sokka. “When I was younger, I spoke out at a meeting.”

Warnings: burns (description of), violence, threats of violence, discussion of canonical child abuse, characters curse but no curse words are written, character is non-permanently injured, yelling/arguing, trauma

A/N: me? writing a zukka AtLA fic and posting it an hour short of midnight? Apparently, it’s more likely that you’d think. 

Read on AO3

--

Zuko has the patience of a saint, Sokka thinks to himself.

It’s an unusual thought, he realizes. A year ago, if you’d told Sokka that he’d come to think of the Banished Prince as ‘patient’, he’d probably have thrown his boomerang at you. A year ago, Zuko was one of the most short-tempered people he knew. A year ago, Zuko was the face of the enemy.

A lot changes in a year.

Sokka barely stifles a frustrated sigh. The attempt does not seem to go unnoticed by Zuko, who glances at him quickly before the corner of his mouth twitches with something like amusement. The meeting had been going on for hours, and Sokka can’t help but feel that very little progress on the treaty had been made. It wasn’t for lack of trying, Sokka knows, but war leaves messy problems in its wake. He knows that both the literal and metaphorical shrapnel left behind by a century of conflict can’t be swept away in a night or a week or a month.

It doesn’t make these meetings any easier to sit through.

“I want immediate release of all prisoners of war,” an Earth Kingdom ambassador demands.

“I second that,” Sokka hears his father--sitting across the table from him--add, a bit more calmly but no less firm. “I have men in those prisons that haven’t seen their family in a decade.”

“Of course,” Zuko replies at the same time a Fire Nation soldier snaps, “absolutely not.”

Zuko levels a hard look at him. “Admiral, people who were arrested as prisoners of war have no need to remain so after the war has ended.” He looks to Hakoda, then to the Earth Kingdom ambassador. “I’ll draft that mandate tonight and will ensure it’s circulation as soon as possible.”

“This is an outrage!” The slam of a fist against the table makes Sokka’s hand fly to the boomerang strapped to his hip instinctively. The admiral is on his feet.

“Admiral,” Zuko says, his voice steely as he rises from his own chair. The Fire Nation soldier cuts him off.

“Where is the justice for the Fire Nation families whose sons and daughters were slaughtered by those criminals?”

“Admiral--”

“I remember a time when you cared about Fire Nation soldiers! And it’s hard to believe you’ve forgotten, seeing as you ought to be reminded every time you look in the mirror--”

“Enough!” Zuko snaps. “You will watch your tongue or you will be escorted out. You approach insubordination.”

“You are a child,” the admiral sneers. “Though one that ought to know a thing or two about insubordination, given your father’s attempts to brand you with a permanent reminder of its consequences--”

“Warriors!”

“Then again, he always was twice the leader you will never be. Long live the Phoenix King!”

Sokka sees the warning signs—the slight shift of weight, the clench of the man’s fists—and leaps to his feet. “Zuko--!”

“Sokka!”

There’s a blinding light and scorching heat. Sokka feels something slam onto his shoulder and he dives instinctively for cover as the familiar roar of a fireball explodes in front of him. The flames are bright and lick around him, and Sokka throws a hand up to protect his face. He blinks the spots from his vision as he yanks his boomerang out of his belt.

Zuko is standing beside him, his stance ready and his hand outstretched, having evidently dispelled the fireball that had been launched at him. Sokka leaps back up to his feet and hurls the boomerang in his hands towards the Admiral, hitting his hand right as he moves to launch another attack and forcing it to go wide. A burst of flames slam against the wall to the left.

The room is in chaos.

Sokka barely hears the shouts of alarm and curses over the roar of dying flames. He sees his father, already on his feet, diving underneath a bolt of red fire. Across the room, the Earth Kingdom ambassador jerks their hand. There’s a rumble in the ground before it rises and anchors around the Admiral’s feet, holding him in place.

Sokka sees the admiral’s gaze meet his own and narrow. The Fire Nation soldier bares his teeth in a snarl, his fist shooting out. Before Sokka can blink, Zuko steps in front of him, dispelling the flames just as the door ricochets open. Two Kyoshi Warriors flood in and in a series of quick strikes, the admiral drops. Awake, but limp.

Sokka thinks idly that he’s grateful that Ty Lee taught them how to block chi.

“Your father should have killed you that day!” the admiral shouts as he’s dragged through the doors. “He showed mercy on your pathetic, worthless—” the door slamming shut cuts him off.

The silence that follows makes Sokka’s ears ring. He can still feel stale adrenaline coursing through him, his heartbeat pounding in his chest. For a moment, nobody moves. Zuko awkwardly clears his throat.

“Apologies for the, uh, disruption. It shouldn’t happen again.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Firelord Zuko,” Hakoda assures him, but there’s something odd in his father’s expression when he looks at Zuko that Sokka doesn’t understand.

Zuko says something in response, but Sokka doesn’t catch it. As the adrenaline bleeds out of him, his muscles relaxing, Sokka realizes that his fists are still clenched. Sokka forces them to relax, and hisses as it sends a jolt of hot pain through his left hand. When he looks down, he realizes that the skin on the top of part of his hand near his knuckles is a blistering, angry red.

Sokka’s hiss doesn’t go unnoticed. Zuko looks at him over his shoulder, his brows drawn together in confusion before his eyes fall to Sokka’s hand. Then, they go wide.

Zuko turns back around suddenly to address the room, his back straighter. “We will adjourn the meeting for the afternoon. We will reconvene tomorrow.”

“Firelord Zuko—” an ambassador from the Northern Water Tribe protests, but Hakoda interrupts him.

“I think we could all use a breather, Kovrik. Coming back tomorrow with a clear head is a good decision.”

“Yes… yes, I suppose that’s fair.”

Sokka is finding it increasingly difficult to follow the conversation. His hand hurts, and it’s taking every last drop of his willpower and pride to grit his teeth and swallow back the whimper that wants to push up his throat. It’s not until Zuko’s face is taking up his entire field of vision that Sokka realizes everyone but the two of them and his father have left the room.

“Let me see,” Zuko says quietly, then curses under his breath when he looks at Sokka’s hand. “Where’s Katara when you need her.”

“Do you have anything that can help?” Hakoda asks from behind Zuko.

“Yes, sir,” Zuko replies, his brows still furrowed in concentration. “Though it’s not quite as immediate as waterbending healers. But it should help with the pain, and prevent infection. Follow me.”

Sokka feels Zuko take his elbow and guide him out the door of the meeting room and down the hall. He’s distantly aware that Zuko is moving quickly—not quite a jog, but only barely shy of it—through a network of corridors. His hand feels like it might still be on fire, and Sokka looks down at it again just to be sure that’s not actually the case. He tells himself that he’s endured injuries more painful than this. The broken leg was worse, he thinks, though it does little to actually help with the burning sensation in his hand.

He’s vaguely aware that Zuko says something quickly to two guards that are flanking a set of doors before he rushes in. Sokka looks up and realizes it’s Zuko’s chambers. He’d only been in here a couple of times before, largely while Zuko was still recovering from Azula’s lightning strike in the weeks following the end of the war.

“Wait here,” Zuko tells him before disappearing through another door on the far side of the room.

“You had good reflexes in there,” Sokka hears his father’s low, soothing voice speak up. He’d had almost forgotten he was there. Hakoda moves the chair that had been beside the bed closer to Sokka in a clear direction to sit down.

“Lots of practice,” Sokka replies as he sits. He hisses a little again as his hand flares and grits out a swear behind clenched teeth.

“Easy,” Hakoda says softly. He places a bracing, comforting hand between Sokka’s shoulder blades. It’s grounding, and he’s grateful.

“Wish Katara was here,” Sokka tells him, echoing Zuko’s comment from earlier.

“I know. Unfortunately, I don’t think she’s coming to Caldera for a while. She’s still in Ba Sing Se with Aang.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Her magic water comes in handy though.” Sokka gives his father a tight smile. “Get it? Hand-y?”

Hakoda snorts just as the door opens again. Zuko has his arms full of a large bowl, his hands fisting a few vials and some bandages. There’s something pinched about Zuko’s expression, and the way he doesn’t meet Sokka’s eyes as he kneels in front of him feels odd. The bowl is full of water, Sokka realizes, as he sets it on the ground and begins to empty the vials into it.

“Can I see your hand?” Zuko asks, and the question—for some reason—catches him off guard.

Sokka blinks. “Yeah. Sure.” He grimaces as he places his hand in Zuko’s, but the excessive gentleness surprises him so much that Sokka almost forgets that his hand hurts.

Zuko was many things, but Sokka can’t remember a time—even after he started to get along with the Fire Prince—that he would have described Zuko as gentle. But his grip on Sokka’s hand is careful. Almost excessively so.  

Zuko hums in the back of his throat as he inspects the burns. “I don’t think it’ll have permanent damage,” he says quietly. “But I still need to treat it so it doesn’t get infected. It… might hurt, a little. But then it should feel better.”

“No permanent damage. That’s good,” Sokka says. He swallows, and nods. “Okay.”

For a long moment, the only sounds that fills the room is the quiet splash of water in the bowl as Zuko submerges the cloth rag again and wrings it out. Sokka lets his gaze float around the room.

Zuko has left it mostly bare. There’s a portrait of Iroh and a woman that Sokka remembers being the Fire Lady—Zuko’s mother—hanging on the wall near the headboard of the bed. On the dresser beside it is a drawing that Sokka did of the group of them months ago. He sees a pile of papers on the desk across the room. He thinks one of them has Aang’s signature at the bottom, but it’s too far away for him to know for sure.

Bright, painful heat searing his hand slams his attention back to Zuko in front of him and Sokka yelps, yanking his hand away. Zuko grimaces, retracing his own hand.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding more earnest than Sokka expects. “This part is painful, but it’ll stop hurting in a minute.”

Sokka fights to pull his breathing back under his control. In through his nose, out through his mouth. “Right,” he manages, his voice tight. “Right, sorry.”

“Don’t be. I know it hurts.”

Something about that line—and about the fact that Zuko still hasn’t met his eyes since returning from the other room—drags Sokka’s thoughts back to the conversation in the treaty meeting. There were several things that the admiral had said to Zuko that Sokka didn’t quite understand. He could only remember pieces of things said, but they repeat in Sokka’s head like disjointed pieces of a puzzle that he can’t quite make fit together.

seeing as you ought to be reminded every time you look in the mirror… insubordination… your father’s attempts to brand you… consequences…

Sokka’s gaze falls back to Zuko, dutifully bowed in front of him. There had long been pieces about Zuko that Sokka had found puzzling. Things about him that didn’t quite fit together. Sokka considers himself a person pretty good at figuring out how things worked together, and that extended (with less success) to figuring out how parts of people make up the sum of their whole.

Zuko, though… Zuko had always been something of a mystery. But as the words of the admiral ricochet in his mind, there’s a picture beginning to come together that is still just a little too hazy, a little too out of focus, to fill in the spaces that Sokka felt were missing.

“What did the admiral mean,” Sokka blurts out without really thinking about it, “when he talked about insubordination?”

Zuko freezes, the rag half-out of the bowl and his other hand still bracing Sokka’s (not quite holding it… far too gentle to be holding it). “What—uh. I, uh.” Zuko stops. Takes a breath. Tries again. He still doesn’t look up at Sokka. “When I was younger, I spoke out at a meeting.”

Sokka’s brow furrows as Zuko presses the rag to the back of his hand again. Sokka realizes that his hand has stopped hurting, but he’s too preoccupied with what Zuko said to pay it much mind. “After the stuff at Ba Sing Se? When you went home?”

“No, I, uh.” Zuko clears his throat. “Before that. Before… yeah. Earlier.”

Your father’s attempts to brand you…

“What happened?” Sokka asks. The way Zuko’s shoulders seem to tense doesn’t escape his attention, and there’s a part of him that wonders if perhaps he shouldn’t have asked. But it also feels like a question that once asked, is too late to take back.

Zuko pats Sokka’s hand dry with another towel and begins to gingerly wrap a bandage around it. He keeps his gold gaze steady on the work. Sokka keeps his gaze steady on Zuko.

“My uncle allowed me to attend a war meeting where they were talking about some battle strategies to use against an Earth Kingdom battalion. There was a general that wanted our newest fleet to serve as a distraction while we mounted an attack from the rear,” Zuko begins. There’s something off about his voice, though. Something detached and careful. He keeps wrapping the bandage. Around and around and around.

Sokka frowns. “That’s not fair,” he says. “Your newest recruits? They’d be slaughtered by an experienced battalion like that.”

Zuko sighs, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Exactly,” he says in a low voice. “And that’s what I told them. I wasn’t thinking. I just… yelled at him.” Sokka opens his mouth to disagree—it sounds like Zuko was thinking, unlike anybody else at that meeting—but Zuko cuts him off as he secures the end of the bandage to Sokka’s palm. “My father didn’t… take it well. I was challenged to an Agni Kai, and I thought I would be facing the general in it, so I accepted.”

Zuko gathers the bowl and empty vials as he stands, crossing the room to set them on the edge of his desk. Sokka stands up slowly as Zuko does so. The pieces that had been out of focus for so long are starting to come together, and Sokka feels his stomach rolling with a leaden weight against what he can sense is coming.

“No…”

“It wasn’t the general,” Zuko continues, his voice so quiet that Sokka is sure he would have missed it if it hadn’t been dead silence around them. “It was my father.”

“You faced your father in an Agni Kai?”

“Not exactly. I…” Zuko stares down into the bowl of water beside him, his gaze distant. “I couldn’t fight my own father. Instead, I begged him for forgiveness. I was met with a fistful of flames.”

Zuko gestures vaguely at his face, and Sokka’s blood turns to ice.

“He…” Sokka’s throat closes, cutting off the rest of that sentence. All this time being chased by Zuko—all this time being friends with him—and he’d always assumed that the scar was the result of a training accident, or a fight with a firebender he lost. Sokka thinks bitterly and viciously that the second assumption wasn’t far off but his own father—

“I was banished after that,” Zuko says, and his voice is hollow and empty and wrong. And he finally, finally, meets Sokka’s gaze. “I was told to bring the Avatar back and all would be forgiven, or to not come back at all. That was before you and your sister woke Aang up from the iceberg.”

Sokka stands very, very still. He glances down and realizes his hands are trembling. He curls the non-bandaged one into a fist to get the shaking to stop. “How old were you?” he asks, and he doesn’t know why—of everything he could say—that’s the question that tumbles past his lips, but he feels like it matters.

“Thirteen.”

“Thir—” Sokka cuts himself off, scrubbing a hand across his mouth and swallowing hard. “Thirteen. Tui and La, when I was thirteen—”

Sokka breaks off again, his throat closing, his gaze falling to his father. When Sokka was thirteen, his father had left to go fight in the war and told Sokka he couldn’t come along. He’d protected Sokka, and though Sokka had found his way into fighting in the war regardless a few years later, he knows his father had only been trying to keep him safe. The idea of his own father striking him—let alone with a fist full of flames to his face—was incomprehensible.

Hakoda doesn’t look back at Sokka. His gaze is trained on Zuko, and there’s something in his eyes that Sokka doesn’t quite understand. But he’s seen it before. It was the same look Hakoda wears when he hears other water tribe soldiers recount war stories. The late-night ones. The ones where their voices betray the weight on their shoulders and tremble with the generations of nightmares on their backs.

Sokka takes a sudden, faltering step forward, and Zuko instinctively tenses. Sokka freezes. “Zuko…”

Zuko shakes his head. He coughs a little, as if trying to clear his throat. “Anyway. That’s—that’s what the admiral was talking about.”

“You…” Sokka tries again, his voice carrying just the barest hints of hysteria. “You were his kid.”

“Yeah, well.” Zuko’s gaze meets Sokka’s again. “He spent most of my life wishing I wasn’t.”

“Zuko,” Hakoda speaks up, his voice a low, soothing rumble to Sokka’s trembling nerves. “I… hope you understand that you didn’t deserve that.”

“I know, sir,” he replies, sounding steadier than Sokka feels. Sokka feels a little like the ground has shifted beneath his feet as he stares at his friend across the room. Zuko continues, frustratingly calm. “It… I didn’t at first. It took me a long time to understand that it was wrong of my father to do that. But I know now.”

“Where is he?” Sokka demands, flushing with a sudden and intense fury.

Zuko blinks, looking taken aback by the vehemence charged through Sokka’s voice like a steel rod. “Where’s who?”

“Ozai.”

“Sokka, what are you gonna do? Fight him? He already lost.”

“Against Aang, not against—did Aang even know?”

Zuko’s brow furrows and he rubs the back of his neck. “Um. I guess I don’t know. I never told him. I… never told any of you.”

“Yeah—and what’s that about, huh?” Sokka demands. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Sokka,” Hakoda warns, but Sokka’s words are already bubbling up throat and spilling past his lips, hot and bitter and angry.

“What, did you think we wouldn’t care? That it wouldn’t matter?”

“It doesn’t matter!” Zuko waves a hand towards the window that overlooks the courtyard. “My father already lost to the Avatar, Sokka. The war is over. The fighting is over. Aang took his bending. And that—I don’t know about you, but that’s the best, most justified end to his legacy I can think of.”

Sokka is still shaking. He can’t explain why. He knows, logically, that Zuko is right. He’s right. But Sokka can still feel his hands shaking, can still feel his heart hammering in his ribs with the urge to run something through with sword, can still feel the way his eyes sting with tears he won’t let fall. Sokka clenches his jaw and rips his gaze away from Zuko out towards the window, where he can see the sun setting on the horizon and painting the palace courtyard in an orange light.

“Wherever he is, I hope he rots,” Sokka says finally, and yet it still doesn’t feel like enough. “He deserves worse.”

Sokka looks back at Zuko, whose gaze is a little wide. He looks… taken aback. Sokka cocks an eyebrow.

“Don’t tell me you disagree—"

“No,” Zuko replies, shaking his head. “I just… Nothing.” The corner of his mouth tugs upwards in the barest hint of a smile. Sokka doesn’t understand why, just like he doesn’t understand why it uncoils the tight knot of burning anger in his chest.

Sokka takes a deep breath. Wills himself to relax. It helps… a little. There’s a beat, and then Sokka hears his father take a step forward. “Thank you for helping Sokka’s hand, Firelord Zuko.”

Zuko blinks, and Sokka swears his cheeks take a faint pink tint as he rubs the back of his neck. “Oh. Uh, of course, sir. And… just Zuko is fine.”

Sokka glances over and sees Hakoda smile, inclining his head. “Understood.” He looks to Sokka. “I should draft a letter to Bato tonight to update him on the treaty. Will you be okay without me?”

Sokka rolls his eyes teasingly. “Yeah, dad. I think I can manage.”

Hakoda squeezes his shoulder, nods to Zuko again, and quietly slips out of the room. The silence afterward seems to stretch, and Sokka feels the lingering tension bleeding out of him as he looks at Zuko, who quietly shuffles through the papers on his desk. Sokka watches him for a beat, his gaze lingering a little on the scarred tissue across his face. Sokka swallows.

There are other questions Sokka thinks he could ask. Like why—after doing that—Zuko was still so bent on returning home to his father. But there’s a part of Sokka that thinks he maybe understands.

Spirits know that he understood what it was like to crave the approval of your father.

“Hey,” he says, and Zuko’s gaze snaps over to him. “I… thank you for telling me. I… know that wasn’t easy, and… it means a lot that you trust me with that.”

“It… it wasn’t a question of trust, you know,” Zuko replies quietly, averting his gaze. “Not telling you, I mean. It was just—”

“I know,” Sokka says, and means it. “But I also know what it’s like to have things you don’t necessarily… want to relive. So it means a lot that you told me.”

The corner of Zuko’s mouth twitches again. He takes a deep, slow breath. “Thank you for listening,” he says.

“I like to think I’m a pretty good listener,” Sokka teases, shrugging.

“You are,” Zuko says, with far more sincerity than Sokka felt was warranted for what he’d meant to be a joke. Sokka blinks at him, and Zuko clears his throat, ducking his head a little. “I was thinking of getting some tea. There’s a place just outside the palace. It’s not as good as Uncle’s, but um. Did you want to come?”

“Yeah,” Sokka replies with a small smile. “I could use a cup of tea.”  

[fuchsiagrasshopper]

Contending the Flame X

Author’s Note: Ten chapters in! I haven’t written something this long in a while and there’s so much more to come yet, so thanks for your encouragement, patience, and kind words as always!

Song inspiration for this chapter: So I never do this, but inspiration in song came to me via Oceans by Puscifer

Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Word count: 3268

Warnings: Canon divergent, Master/servant dynamic, language, hint of angst

When you first saw the great expanse of the blue ocean touching sky, you only had two thoughts; that it was more beautiful than all of the green hills of England, and that Ivar should have been at your side. He had broken his promise, though not intentionally you understood.

He had been there at the break of dawn as Ubbe helped you into the longboat. After you had parted in the slave's quarters, you hadn't been given the chance to be alone with him again. Standing at the edge of the water, his face had been as blank as a fresh sheet of parchment, and he was careful not to look in your direction. You never stopped looking at him though, even as the bow of the boat pierced the water and the current started to drag you away. Ivar soon became a black line in your vision, and when you lost sight of York, it set in that you were leaving behind your homeland. 

Hvitserk had pulled you aside days before you were to depart to give you an education on what to expect when travelling by sea. It wasn't uncommon to have an upset stomach or light head, but drinking enough water would help ease such discomforts. You were also told to keep close to Ubbe's side should the clouds sink low and drive squalls into the side of the boat. Hvitserk had laughed at the alarmed look on your face but had continued to reassure you that if you all ended up in the water, that Ubbe was a competent swimmer. Not very comforting.

The chill in the air was different in the open water than when on land. Taking a look around the longboat at your fellow traveller's, they did not appear to be as bothered by the cold. Their northern bones were built to withstand the wind it seemed. Ubbe had draped you in a fur pelt, but it might as well have been a silk curtain. The cold had seeped into your marrow, and you felt soaked from the spray of the salty sea. 

As you watched the waves roll by, you heard the thumping steps of boots on the wooden boards coming closer. Ubbe tossed you an unsure smile as you looked up, and he took the spot across from you. It was still odd sharing in your first tour of the ocean with someone who was mostly a stranger. When you had first spotted him on the night of the raid, you had only seen another blood soak barbarian who spoke in a foreign tongue. Your paths had intertwined since then, but you hadn't spoken until this morning. He had apologized for scaring you, and also explained he had only been trying to help you that night. Perhaps things would have turned out differently had you stayed at his side, but you chose not to ponder the 'what if' scenario.

"You travel the water well," He complimented, cutting through your thoughts. "Most throw up their first time."

"I've been following Hvitserk's advice," You said, holding up your waterskin. You were mindful to pace yourself and not chug it down all at once either. "It's also beautiful out here. I didn't want to miss anything."

Ubbe nodded as his gaze fixed on the knife in your other hand. You didn't know what to do with it, and you didn't have any other belongings in your name. Even if you didn't agree with the purpose of its gifting, you wanted to keep it close.

"Ivar gave you that?" Ubbe prodded lightly, but you could see he was curious. 

"Yes," You said, hoping to God you didn't give up a blush as you thought about Ivar.

"Thralls aren't supposed to have weapons, you know."

"I tried to tell that to your brother, but he insisted."

Ubbe smirked. "I wonder why he would do that?"

You frowned as you looked down at the aforementioned knife. "What do you mean?"

"Only that he was constantly badgering me about keeping you safe," Ubbe said and he laughed at your confounded expression. "I'm not sure what Saxon men gift to their women, but for us, a weapon is of some significance."

You considered Ubbe's words, and how adamant Ivar had been when placing it in your hand. You'd never had any man offering you gifts before. Maybe that was why you kept it so close.

"I told him I wouldn't know how to use it. That was a lie."

"You know how to wield a knife?" Ubbe asked incredulously. 

"Well, not with any real skill, but when Ivar gave it to me he said it can take a life if I had to. That doesn't require any technique, just courage and a fight to survive." You withdrew the knife from the sheath, focused on how the blade glinted from the sun.

"And have you...taken a life that is?"

You looked out over the side of the boat, but there was no escape out there. Seeing how far the water spread put into perspective how alone these ships were. The Northmen seemed to be the bravest people you had ever known, to venture out into an abyss and hope to come across land after travelling such a distance.

Your attention returned to Ubbe, and you had nearly forgotten his question or rather you had hoped he would. "I've never told anyone this before; only God. It has been my burden and shame, a part of my past I've been seeking absolution for."

"You mean you've killed before?" Ubbe stretched out his legs and moved closer. It suddenly felt as if you were the only two sharing the boat.

"In a different life, before I had taken my vows as a nun. I was alone on the streets after my mother died, still new to the idea of being an orphan. I knew little in the ways of fending for myself. Up until that time I had survived on what scraps my mother could beg or steal for us both." You felt your eyes close a moment, and you could see the crooked alleys of Rendlesham again. It had all the charm of a charnel house, and the scent of spoiled goat's milk was everywhere. 

"When my mother died, I didn't mourn her absence as much as I resented it. She left me alone. I was a vagrant, and my struggle came over a bit of leftover stale bread. Another poor boy wanted it, but I had found it first. He was as skinny as me, but I remember he seemed so strong. I knew I would never have wrestled the bread back from him, so I picked up a stone and hit him over the back of the head with it. He didn't even make a noise, he just laid there. At first, I thought he was unconscious, but he wasn't breathing. I took the bread, and I ran. I haven't stopped running since."

"You joined the church after that?" Ubbe guessed.

You nodded. "I was too young to make any real commitment to joining a nunnery, but the sisters' pity orphans and that meant a bed to sleep in. But I couldn't get over my guilt at what I'd done. It wasn't for me to decide if that boy died, but I had been selfish. I wanted to live, and he was in my way."

"Self-preservation isn't a bad thing. It takes courage to stand up when it is so much easier to lie down," said Ubbe, and he held out his hand, silently asking for the knife. You put it in his palm while hesitating, afraid he wouldn't give it back. "This can save you. It is an extension of that will to survive, and even a nun can become as fierce as a shieldmaiden if the situation calls for it."

You were quick in retrieving your knife back, and your eagerness caused Ubbe to laugh. You smiled in return a moment before growing serious. "I hope I never have to use it."

"I wish that for you, if only because it brings you peace. But your life is tied to my little brother's now, and death seems to follow him like a black cloud. I would get used to the idea all the same if I were you."

You had so many questions about Ivar, about his past, and what his intentions for you were. It wouldn't have been fair to try and pry the answers out of Ubbe though. Ivar's mind was as closed off to him as it was to you it seemed. Besides, you wanted to hear the truth from the man himself, whenever you were to meet again. A throb grew in your chest, but you refused to call it longing.

Ubbe stood up and brushed a hand on your shoulder. "You should rest. Our journey has only begun, and the ocean can turn you weary."

"I will try," You agreed if only to placate him. "And Ubbe, can you not tell Ivar about what we discussed?"

"Why not?" He asked, a genuine look of confusion falling on his face.

"I just...don't want him to think badly of me."

"I don't think he would. In fact, I think it would only bind him to you more," Ubbe said, but your pleading eyes didn't waver. "But if it's that important to you, I won't mention it."

"Thank you."

Ubbe nodded before leaving you to return to the men rowing the ship. You tried to do as he suggested, settling further into your fur in the intent to sleep, but your mind was awake and you were surrounded by water that never knew rest. Your thoughts dwelled on the murdered boy, his face you had since forgotten. All that remained was his blood on your hands. You wondered again if anyone had noticed his disappearance, a family waiting for a son who was never coming home, or maybe he had been like you. Left alone, and ignored by the unfriendly faces of strangers. 

What Ubbe had said about the truth binding Ivar to you made you curious. The Northmen had such different views on death and murder. Ubbe had not flinched at your story, so you knew Ivar wouldn't even bat an eye. It felt good to unburden yourself from the secret, and that in turn filled you with guilt. You didn't want to reflect on that moment so haphazardly. You had taken a life.

With a sigh you looked up at the sky, wondering which god was listening to you. Closing your eyes, you began to murmur your prayer.

"Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee…"

ooOOoo 

Ivar was miserable. He loved seeing the world and leading the army to conquer new lands, but it was a pity he had to travel by sea to accomplish all of that. There was no skipping over the inevitable part of sailing on a longboat and try as he could to refrain from feeling sick, he had already lost the contents of his stomach over the stern. He knew he was as pale as a baby seal, and his expression was screwed into one of discomfort and acrimony. Hvitserk was mindful to keep anyone from approaching him, even Freydis who thought she could use the opportunity to soothe his irritability with her false concerns.

Vestfold was a long journey from York and centered in inhospitable territory surrounded by floating ice. Ubbe and his boat would likely reach Kattegat before they were to arrive in King Harald's domain. Ivar considered how to approach the man. He was both wise and volatile and had led great legions of men when Ivar was still an infant. He respected the older King a great deal, but that wasn't any reason to let his guard down and play the situation with anything less than caution. 

Ivar looked around the ship and spotted Hvitserk laughing around with the men. He was grateful to have his brother with him, but it didn't ease the ache of your separation. He had never broken a promise before until he had said he would take you to see the ocean. You were off somewhere else with Ubbe, who he prayed to Odin would keep you safe. He wondered how you were travelling by boat, and whether or not you had thought of him in return.

He had gifted you with a knife, and in return, the only thing Ivar had of yours was your wooden cross pendant. It was from the first day you had met. He didn't know why he kept it then, only that it had nothing to do with the Christian symbol. It was something of yours, delicate and modest that had rested close to your heart. It fit so small and insignificant in his hand, and he traced it with his finger, hating everything it represented but unable to toss it aside.

"Are you considering converting?" Heahmund's voice chimed at his side. He was tied up at the back of the boat, and Ivar thought he had been asleep until now.

"I would rather die forgotten and nameless, belonging to no god than to ever believe in your powerless one," Ivar groused back as he hid the cross away.

"Where did you get that then? From an unfortunate soul whose path you crossed."

Ivar thought of your face, breathless and flushed after he had kissed you. "On the contrary. She has been very fortunate to have met me."

"I see," Heahmund said unconcerned. "It was (Y/N)'s then."

Ivar frowned, craning his head to engage with the Bishop head-on. "(Y/N)? Is that her true name?"

"Yes," Heahmund replied, and he lost the smarmy smirk. "She never told you that then."

Ivar wanted to toss the Bishop overboard, regardless of the usefulness he thought he could provide up until now. You had confessed your true name to this man, something Ivar had been trying to wrest from you for months. His stomach pulled tight from the hurt, and he thought he was going to be sick again.

"Ivar," The Bishop called for his attention. "I'm certain she only told me because she was confessing a private matter to me. I did not ask it of her."

"What matter?"

Heahmund shook his head. "I cannot say, for that would be a betrayal of her trust."

Ivar forced himself to stand, even as he swayed from the motion of the boat. He clung to one crutch while thrusting the other into the center of the Bishop's chest, forcing out an exhale from the impact. 

"Tell me now, or you won't have any teeth left to chew with." Or to smile with for that matter.

Heahmund hesitated a moment as if to measure how true he felt the threat to be. He came around to the smart conclusion and began to talk. "She only said that she felt lost in regards to your intentions, and how she feels about you. I warned her not to fall in love with a heathen."

Love? Ivar frowned, not able to grasp how such a concept had been conjured up in a conversation between you. But the notion didn't repulse him. It was a delight. He had an entirely different reason for the fog in his head, none of which had to do with the shifting of the boat. Could it be possible that you felt the same?

"What did (Y/N) say?" He asked, getting familiar with the taste of your name on his tongue. 

"She said that she could never give her heart to a heathen and that she will remain with God. Alas, Sister Mary Catharine will never belong to you, Boneless."

Ivar didn't take you to be one for cruelty, and he was skeptical about what Heahmund was saying. Another part of his mind, a dark part that he had tried to shut out, believed the Bishop. Everything from the kiss to your attempt on your own life, and of the words you had shared occupied his thoughts into one loud boom of chaos. He loathed the distance that now separated you. If you were with him now, he could hear the truth pass from your lips rather than wanting to shake it free from Heahmund. 

Ivar went closer to him until his figure loomed and blocked the sun from his face. "You both belong to me, and if you think you can steal her back to England, then you'd best prepare yourself for the cross, Bishop. I hear your people crucify thieves." 

"Ivar," Hvitserk interrupted, wearing an unsure expression as he approached. "Everything alright?"

"Perfect. I was just clearing something up with our God-fearing Bishop. We understand each other much better now, I think."

Heahmund stared back blankly, and Ivar could sense his hatred. He revelled in it, knowing that he had taken all of the power away from the Bishop. 

"Great. Can I talk to you for a moment, now that everything's settled," Hvitserk said, already starting to walk away towards the side of the boat.

Ivar spared one last look at Heahmund, who had humbled himself in defeat. His head was bowed, and he uttered no prayer under his breath. Ivar smirked before leaving him.

Hvitserk's shoulders were tense, and he was gripping the ledge of the boat as Ivar came up behind him. He appeared annoyed, something Ivar wasn't used to seeing. Hvitserk was the calm type.

"What's the matter?" He asked.

Hvitserk shot a sour look over his shoulder in the direction of Heahmund. "I've had it with that lippy Christian, and I'm not the only one. Most of our warriors aren't keen on having a Bishop doing our fighting."

Ivar rolled his eyes. "He's nothing more than a pawn. No real power."

"Then you should tell them that. Most would rather have the nun back."

Ivar froze at the mention of you. "What do they know about (Y/N)?" 

"Who?" 

"That's her name, as I've found out," Ivar explained brusquely. "Anyway, most of them don't even know her."

"That's not true. A lot of them have seen or spoken with her since she aided Audhild."

It had slipped his mind accidentally that he wasn't always with you since he had given you away. Things had happened beyond his sight of you, like the bruise on your eye that he was never made privy to. "What do they say about her?"

"They think she is meek, like most Christians," Hvitserk said, shrugging. "But she isn't judgemental when it comes to our customs, and she has admirable patience. I told them she must have, to have put up with you this long." 

Ivar jostled to the side as Hvitserk nudged him in the shoulder. They both broke out into a laugh, and it helped remind Ivar he wasn't alone in whatever came next. Vestfold would be upon them soon enough, and there was no room to be careless. 

The brothers stood sharing in each other's silence. Ivar couldn't hazard a guess about Hvitserk's thoughts, too preoccupied with his own and the weight of the cross he had stashed away in his tunic. He stared out at the water, with visions of sea serpents and merfolk playing tricks on his mind. Leagues away in your longship, he hoped the first sight of the ocean had brought you some happiness. He would make it up to you with a promise of something else spectacular, and this time he would see it through at your side. 

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[merakiaes]

Starting Fresh - Tommy Shelby

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x reader

Requested: By @harringtoncastle, @sxperncturalimpala67, @sflowervol6​ and 2 Anons.

Prompts: #1, #2, #12, #16 (with a twist), #33 and #39 from the angst-list. 

Warnings/notes: This is a combination of five requests, saw an opportunity to get several done and took the chance😂 I’m a bit writer’s block and haven’t written for Peaky Blinders in a while now so I might be a bit rusty. Give it some love, let me know what you think xx

Wordcount: 2607

Summary: Grace is dead but she’s still the only one Tommy sees, and you can’t stop pretending you don’t notice him crying for her anymore. 

“I hear him, Pol.” You whispered. “I hear him crying for her and I just… I can’t do it anymore.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat but it was to no use, the thickness returning just as quickly as Polly put a hand on your shoulder, the gesture being intended to comfort you but ending up doing the exact opposite.

The older woman took note of the way you flinched when she touched you, but left her hand right there, giving your shoulder a squeeze. “He’s blind.” She stated. “That boy wouldn’t know a good woman even if he got her handed to him on a silver platter.”

You sniffed into your handkerchief, shaking your head to yourself and staring into the table. “Grace was a good woman.” You whispered, a new set of tears springing up in your eyes.

“No.” She was quick to shoot you down, removing her hand from your shoulder and sinking into the chair next to you, taking your hands in hers and shaking them to get your attention.

Once your tearful eyes met hers, she gave you one of those tight-lipped, stern looks that could make any man tremble in their boots; but not you.

“She had him under her spell, but she wasn’t loyal.” She continued, shaking her head. “Not to him, not to our family. Not like you.”

She was right, you knew. No matter how convinced Tommy was that she was on his side, she would never be fully loyal to him or the rest of the Shelbys.

She would always be the daughter of a copper and she would always be privileged. She had lived a good life and had no idea what it was like to struggle to make ends meet in the slums, and would therefore never be able to fully support his fight against the law and his choice of living.

Like Polly said; not like you, who had been right there by their side since you were little.

You and Tommy were as close as peas in a pod growing up and you’d had something before he left for the war.

But when he returned, he wasn’t the same man that he had been before he left, taking distance from you for reasons unknown even though you still harbored feelings for him.

He got married to Grace, crushing your heart completely, and still… you remained at his beck and call, accepting his marriage proposal without a doubt in your mind when Grace had passed away, even though you obviously hadn’t been his first choice. 

But it was all catching up to you now, having to live in the same house as the man you loved more than anything and having to watch him mourn the woman he loved, who obviously wasn’t you with the way he had been more or less ignoring you except for the times he wanted you to do something.

You swallowed once more, having to shake your head and tear your eyes away from Polly’s to protect yourself from the hurtful truth, looking back into the table. “Where her loyalties laid doesn’t change the fact that he still loves her though, does it?” You whispered, and listened as she sighed.

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

Silence fell over the two of you and before you got the chance to say anything else, the front door slammed open loudly, causing Polly to pull her hands back to her body and the both of you to whip your heads around to look toward the source of the disruption.

Your eyes instantly landed on Tommy, who had still to look at you as he busied himself with removing his cap and outer coat. 

Only when he was finished doing so and turned around to hang his coat around the back of a chair did he notice the two of you sitting there, his face instantly falling into one of concern at the sight of trails of dried tears going down your cheeks.

While you quickly turned your face away from him, Polly stood up from her seat, giving your hand one last squeeze. “I’ll be in the back.” She told you, and then she walked out of the kitchen to give you some privacy without another word.

Tommy wasted no time in walking up to you, his steps slow and eyes analyzing you like he did everything and everyone else. “What’s going on?” He asked, and you simply cleared your throat, fiddling with the handkerchief. 

“Nothing.”

“I can see you’re upset.” He replied without missing a beat, sinking down in the chair Polly had been sitting in just half a minute before and leaning forward, trying to catch your eye as you were avoiding his gaze to every cost.

“Why won’t you look at me, eh?” He questioned, and in the corner of your eye you could see him raising his eyebrows in a humorous manner, like he always did when he was trying to get you in a better mood.

When you still didn’t answer or look at him, he reached out for your hands, and only then did you turn your head in his direction, seeing that his face had now turned serious.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” He tried again, and you sucked in a shaky breath, having to clench your hands as hard as you possibly could in order to not break out crying right then and there at the feeling of his warm skin against yours.

“Do you love me?” You asked, swallowing to wet your dry throat and your stomach twisting uncomfortably with a mixture of hope, of what you wanted him to say, and fear, of what he was most likely to.

His eyebrows shot up at the unexpected question, his face once again turning up in a small, amused smile. 

“We’re married.” He only pointed out, causing your chest to tighten with the growing anxiety.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” You whispered, trying again. “Do you love me?”

He took a moment, searching your eyes, most likely trying to figure out where all of this was coming from. 

His face fell, telling you he probably figured it out, but he remained quiet about it, simply replying in a low tone: “Yes.”

You could see it in his eyes that he was telling the truth, but also that it wasn’t in the way you wanted, which instantly caused your heart to increase in speed behind your chest.

“But you’re not in love with me.” You acknowledged sadly, and the look on his face told you all you needed to know, your head shaking softly. “No, that’s what I thought…”

He averted his gaze from you and as he pulled his hand away from yours, you couldn’t hold the tears back any longer, the salty droplets toppling over the edge and rolling down your cheeks, the skin already stale, hot and itchy from the old tears.

“I hear you, Tommy.”  You managed to get out through the thickness of your throat, your voice cracking. “I hear you crying for her, calling out for her in your sleep and I’ve realized- I’ve realized that I’ll never be her, so I think it’s about time we stop pretending like it.”

You sniffled and he instantly straightened up in his seat, shaking his head. “I care for you, (Y/N).”

He went to reach out for your hand again but you pulled it away, moving it under the table and out of his reach. 

“I know you do, but I also know that you don’t care enough.” You answered. “Not like you do for her.”

His eyes closed, a frustrated sigh leaving his nose. “I just need a little more time.” He said, pulling his hand over his face.

“I’ve given you nothing but time. I’ve waited, and waited, and waited, and still… nothing. I’m starting to come to terms with the fact that we aren’t meant to be, and that maybe the man I’ve been waiting for all this time doesn’t even exist. We’re not kids anymore, Tommy.” You shook your head. “We’ve known each other since we were only teenagers and I want more than anything to say I’d rather have you in my life as a friend than not at all but I would be lying if I did. We’re well past that stage at this point and I wouldn’t be able to handle that.”

Hot tears were rolling freely down your cheeks and you were really struggling to keep yourself together, even more so when he leaned forward in his seat and reached a hand out for your face.

“Please, don’t cry.” He mumbled, using his thumb to attempt to wipe away your tears, but they just kept coming. “I know I’m a work in process but I am trying.”

Your breath shook at his touch, your tears now falling quicker than ever. “I know you are, but you don’t love me.” You whispered back. “You’re scared and vulnerable and I represent security and a crutch. But a crutch is something that you need, not something that you want. And I want to be with somebody who wants to be with me at all times, not just when they’re feeling afraid or lonely.”

You paused, raising your hand to his that was still pressed against your cheek, and looked sorrowfully into his eyes. “I- I don’t even know who you are anymore.” You whispered. “I just want the old Thomas back.”

He stared right back into your eyes for a moment, before he slowly pulled his hand away from you again, looking to the side.

“I’ll never be that me again.” He answered lowly after a moment of silence and if your hadn’t been heartbroken before, you sure were now that you got the fact verbally confirmed.

Still, you had expected it, so you sucked it up with another shaky breath, looking down into your lap where you were still anxiously fiddling with your handkerchief. “I know you won’t. And that’s why I’m choosing to walk away and spare us both from years of conflict and pain. I’m not going to sit by and watch you destroy yourself like this any longer.”

You sniffed, slowly pushing your chair back and standing up, putting the chair back to its rightful place before turning back around to look at him, where he was still sitting down and following your every move with his eyes.

You held on to your handkerchief with one of your hands and reached the other out for him, gently touching his cheek and watching as his face remained stoic.

But you only smiled, to your best ability with tears still rolling down your cheeks, stroking the cleanshaven skin.

“Find yourself, and then come back to me.” You whispered. “Okay?”

You didn’t get a response and you hadn’t expected to get one in the first place either, simply removing your hand from his face, giving him one last look, before turning on your heel without another word and heading out of the house to go to your mother’s place.

You grabbed your coat from the coathanger on the way out but didn’t stay to put it on, slipping your arms into the sleeves and pulling it up only when you got outside.

Wrapping your arms around yourself for comfort, you headed down the street with tears still rolling down your cheeks and not showing signs of stopping anytime soon.

Everything you wanted was for him to look at you like you looked at him, that he could search for you like you searched for him wherever you went. 

You wished that he would love you like you loved him but you knew he didn’t want you, not the way you wanted him, not the way he wanted her, and you knew he would never be yours. 

He had never really been, had he? Not really.

All you could do now, as you were walking away from him, was hope that someday, time would be right for the two of you and he would find you again.

And he did, sooner than you would’ve thought, when you woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of knocking on the front door of your mother’s house, finding Thomas standing out on the porch with water dripping off his clothes from the intense raining.

“You were the first one to show me what love could feel like.” He wasted no time in speaking the second you were revealed to him and you were standing in front of each other.

You could only wrap your arms around yourself to protect you from the chill and watch him with sad eyes, not knowing what to say. 

“Thomas…” You just about managed to utter his name softly, and he shook his head, eyebrows shooting up and one of those smiles of his rising to his lips.

“You’re right.” He told you. “You never will be Grace.”

Your heart tugged in your chest and you had to swallow in order to not start crying again, but you said nothing, letting him speak as you knew he wouldn’t have come there if he didn’t have a point.  

He took another step up the stairs, coming closer to you and reaching out for your hands. 

You flinched when he touched you but he kept going, so you let him hold your hands, despite your better judgment.

“But that doesn’t make you any less special.” He continued, not once looking away from your eyes. “If it were you who died, I know for a fact that you would hunt my dreams, too, because I love you. I should’ve told you so, but I just-”

“You just what?” You asked as he trailed off and he tensed his jaw, looking to the side for a brief moment before turning his head back to you.

“When you asked me if I was in love with you and I didn’t answer, I didn’t know if I was ready to let her go, because I knew I would be if I answered that question.” He answered, and you frowned, shaking your head.

“What are you saying?” You asked, your mind confused.

But your heart knew exactly what he was saying, racing and thumping in your chest with excitement, and you got your suspicions confirmed the second his face and eyes softened, and his smooth voice reached your ears.

“I’m saying that I’m in love with you, (Y/N) (Y/L/N). And I’m ready to start over if you are. I won’t force you to stay but I’m hoping you will.” 

One of his hands kept holding on to yours, while the other came up to brush a strand of your hair out of your face, that had fallen out of your bun.

When you left him the other day, you had made up your mind to not go back to him like you had so many times before, but one simple touch from him was enough to get the spinning wheels in your head to change direction.

You’d gotten a lot of time to think during the time you had been apart and you had come to the conclusion that at some point, you just had to let go of what you wished would have happened and live in and make the best of what was happening.

So you released a shaky breath, your eyelids fluttering as you blinked, and then you raised your hands to cradle his face like he was doing yours, watching as his eyes fell shut at the touch.

“You know I’d choose you over and over and over.” You whispered. “Without pause, without a doubt, in a heartbeat, I’d keep choosing you.”

His eyes came back open to look into yours, long and hard. And then he raised his other hand to your face, pulling you closer to him, and pressed his lips to yours gently. 

A kiss to symbolize a fresh start, just what both of you needed.

Tagged: @lucillethings​ @thelonewolfdies​@peakyhermione​ @fanficflaneuse​ @springsoulofengland​ @knrivera16​

(If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, send me a message, ask or leave a comment)

[katehuntington]

2020, 2nd edition Disclaimer: ‘Kate Huntington’s Author & Fanfiction Recommendations’ is a platform for writers, to show appreciation for their work and expand their audience. I do not claim to be the author of these stories, neither do I own them. Read each writer’s warnings carefully, most of them are rated +18.

Without further ado, here is my list of recommendations.

One shots

“My Hero” - written by @plaidstiel-wormstache Angst/fluff - Sam Winchester x female reader, Dean Winchester - 1524 words     When Sam gets hurt on a hunt, Y/N is the only one who can help him. What I love most about this fanfic is the medical accuracy. I am no expert in any way, but after seeing countless medical dramas and having done plenty of research for characters and stories, I really appreciate it when knowledge about medicine practically drips from my screen. A lovely read.

“Everytime You Leave, I Hit Rock Bottom” - written by @arazialotis  Angst/fluff/slight smut - Dean Winchester x female reader - 2050 words      This story portrays little snippets of Dean’s and Y/N’s relationship as they struggle to balance her normal life with his life as a hunter. The writer has done a beautiful job showing how much of a challenge it would truly be. The longing for each other after weeks apart, the realistic arguments. It’s liberating to read fanfiction that shows the imperfections that come with being a hunter’s other half.

“Nicotine” - written by @talesmaniac89 Angst - Dean Winchester x reader - 1966 words      Dean has plenty of unhealthy coping mechanisms to help him get through his dark days, but the only drug that really helps, is you. This story is inspired by the song Nicotine by Chef’Special and was written for my 1K celebration. The lyrics to this song are surprisingly depressing, despite it being an upbeat song, and the writer has captured it better than I could have ever hoped for. If her writing was music, it would be a symphony played by an orchestra. Her way with words is melodic and moving. Goosebumps all over.

“Over Our Heads” - written by @deanssweetheart23  Fluff - Dean Winchester x female reader - 2482 words      The feelings Dean and Y/N have for each other and have been under wraps for years begin to surface during a movie night. Oh my word, what an amazing thing to witness. This sweet story is a gorgeous piece of writing. How the author is able to take such a quiet and simple moment and turn it into something so meaningful and heartfelt, is beyond me. Talent oozes from this fanfic and is worth your time and love.

“The Voices” - written by @fictionalabyss  Angst/comfort - Dean Winchester x female reader - 1215 words

Based on ‘I hear the voices when I’m dreaming. I can hear them sing’ from the Supernatural anthem Carry On My Wayward Son, comes this breathtakingly beautiful piece of fanfiction. Perfect lines, spot on dialogue and it couldn’t have been more true to the character. It’s painfully raw, sad, and tears will fall. It makes you feel for Dean in ways that are difficult to describe. The writer of this story is known for her talent with words, but she outdid herself here.

“The Things We Tell Ourselves” - written by @imamotherfuckingstar-lord  Comfort/fluff/explicit - Dean Winchester x reader, Sam Winchester      Y/N is miserably stuck in a stale relationship, and then an old flame rolls into town. The very first line is already a winner; what a way to start a fic. The picture this writer paints of a flawed relationship is very realistic. I think a lot of people can relate, being stuck, too far in to just pull the plug. The descriptions are very detailed and this story has the reader wishing for more. 

“Promise Me We’ll Be Alright” - written by @impala-dreamer  Angst - Dean Winchester x reader - 1303 words      This one shot portrays Dean’s struggle with bearing the Mark of Cain so beautifully. Everyone could imagine how rough it must have been for him, but this writer took that pain and my heart with it. She has the ability to leave things unsaid in order for the next line for a bigger impact; it’s smart writing and it’s so effective. It’s vivid, it’s realistic, it’s breathtaking.

“Time For Plan B” - written by @thegirlwhorunswithwinchesters Fluff - Dean Winchester x pregnant!reader, Sam Winchester - 1900 words      So much fluff, that I smiled all the way through. For one, it’s incredibly well written, it flows so wonderfully. Secondly, the comedy and the lightness of this bit of fanfiction is perfect. Writing something that’s funny isn’t easy, but this author did a terrific job. It’s a perfect blend of fluff and funny. Thirdly, who can resist father-to-be Dean? “Side By Side” - written by @talesmaniac89 Angst - Dean Winchester x reader - 2542 words      On the anniversary of yet another fallen friend, Dean is unable to cope with the loss, but thankfully he has Y/N by his side. Another brilliant creation, based on the song Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol. A song which surfaces a lot of emotions, much like this poetic and amazing piece of fanfiction. Words that come to mind are heart wrenching, tear jerking, and in a way comforting as well. A must read.

“Cabin Fever” - written by @slytherkins Angst/explicit - Dean Winchester x Chloe (OFC) - 17002 words      This has got to be hands down the best thing to discover in a while. What an amazing work of art. 17K might sound like a lot and original characters aren’t read as much on this platform, but it is worth every second of time. The storytelling is gripping and the well told tail will not let the reader go. The way the creator described Dean and his torment, his inner thoughts and his struggle is absolutely superb. It’s a homage to everyone dealing with chronic pain, disability and depression. This fic had me clutching my chest and praying ‘no no no no, please don’t do it’ all the way through. I haven’t felt emotional about writing like this much, but this writer knocked it out of the damn park.

“I Just Called To Say I Love You” - written by @talesmaniac89 Angst - Dean Winchester x reader      When Dean gets lethally injured and has only minutes to live, he calls the woman he loves to have one last normal, happy moment with her. It hurts as bad as it sounds, but in the most wonderful way. It’s exactly how Dean would go down, the characterization beyond perfect. The descriptions, the dialogue, the details, the choices. The song that serves as the perfect title has been forever ruined for me. It’s a Rembrandt painted with letters.

“To The End Of Time” - written by @impala-dreamer Angst - Dean Winchester x reader - 2600 words      Talking about fanfiction completely changing the meaning of a song. I have heard ‘Paradise By The Dashboard Light’ by Meatloaf a couple of times on the radio now, and I cannot listen to it without thinking of this story. Dean mourning the death of his loved one is painfully well described. The alternations between the present and the flashbacks, the evident contrast between the happiness that was and the sorrow that is now. It’s beautifully done. The song fits the story perfectly. What a read. 

“Calm After The Storm” - written by @thegirlwhorunswithwinchesters​ Angst/comfort - Dean Winchester x reader - 2200 words      What a pleasant surprise this one shot was! As a stormchaser, this little AU had my heart from the beginning, but you certainly don’t need to be an admirer of the weather to appreciate it. Besides that the subject really appeals to me, it’s also incredibly well written. The comfort Dean offers is sincere and moving.

“Bring It On Home” - written by @thoughtslikeaminefield  Fluff/explicit - Dean Winchester x female reader - 1207 words      Dean comes home to his girl after a hunt, unable to wait to be with her again. This writer has a very poetic way of describing this sweet scene. There are so many wonderful lines in here, little gems wrapped up in heartwarming, carefree and happy fluff. I wish something so pure for my favorite hunter.

“A New Future” - written by @kittenofdoomage​​ Fluff/angst/explicit - Alpha!Dean Winchester x female Omega!reader - 9944 words      Dean is unable to deal with the aftermath of losing his brother, but Y/N is there to pick up the pieces. How she puts the battered hunter back together is a beautiful thing to see in words. I’m always amazed how well this author writes A/B/O. Although it might not be everyone’s cup of tea, she certainly managed to get me on the alpha omega train. The storytelling is strong, the characters authentic, the details amazing, every word of dialogue spot on.

“Comfort” - written by @idreamofplaid​  Fluff/comfort - Dean Winchester x female reader, Sam - 2342 words      Y/N and Dean have a routine when he leaves on a hunt, but also one when he comes home to her, and it’s such a beautiful thing. It’s lovely to witness how comfortable Dean is and how he allows her to love him, as much as he loves her. The details are astonishing, how she makes everything perfect for her hunter to return, how they don’t talk about the hunt, but just are. Very well written, I was floating while reading this and felt warm from all the affection. The writer does a wonderful job drawing the one reading in, making it impossible to put down.

“If It Was To Work” - written by @deangirl93​ Angst/Fluff/explicit - Dean Winchester x reader, Sam Winchester - 3979 words      After a much needed black and white, non-Chuck hunt, the Winchesters go to a bar for a good time. Dean doesn’t expect to run into a familiar face, however. The very first one shot of a new writer and it certainly deserves attention. This new kid on the block has so much potential! This story for instance is an uncut diamond. The writing is smart, with beautiful quotes which call back to the show we all love so much. The author of this fanfic is one to watch!

Imagines:

“Imagine Dean debating asking you out” - written by @luci-in-trenchcoats​   Fluff/comedy - Dean Winchester x female reader      Dean has a crush on a girl, Sam is calling him out. When his little brother threatens to expose his secret, Dean tries to silence him, and it’s honestly the funniest read I’ve had this month. Writing comedy isn’t easy, but this was flawless.

“Imagine depression hitting you hard” - written by @wicked-wayward-warrior​ Angst/comfort - Dean Winchester x Jazzie Baker (OFC) - 1993 words      Jazzie is struggling, but thankfully Dean is by her side. This story is an ode to everyone dealing with mental illness. The way this author put depression to words is both chilling and amazing. Dean being the support and the comforting man that everyone wants in their life if just what I needed.

“Imagine experiencing your worst nightmare” - written by @carryonmywaywardcaptain​ Angst - Dean Winchester x reader      The angst is strong with this one, because Dean expresses what he really feels, but it will not be what you think. The opening is painfully dark, then it takes a turn, and the way this writer described the confusing and anxious thoughts of Y/N is really well done. Everyone can relate to this; being dismissed and hated by the ones you love is worse than losing them all together. A good read.

Drabbles:

“All That’s Left” - written by @impalaimagining​ Angst/comfort - Jensen Ackles, Jared Padalecki, Misha Collins - 559 words      Just the thought of my favorite show ending has me emotional, not to mention when it’s put into words like this. God, this is beautiful.  The way this author describes Jensen, Jared and Misha is amazing. So true to them, so tangible. She’s brave enough to leave things unsaid, the silence expressing so much more than words ever could. Reading how everyone’s favorite people say farewell to Supernatural pulls at heartstrings in a way that is both sad and comforting.

“She’s Not You” - written by @winchest09​ Fluff - Dean Winchester x female reader - 995 words      At the night of senior prom, and Y/N’s date stood her up, until someone knocked on the door. I for one am a total sucker for a prom date!Dean; still a teenager, sort of innocent, and yet still the Dean we’ve all fallen in love with. This was written so effortlessly and sweetly. If anyone is in the need of some tooth-rotting fluffiness, this is the go-to fic. 

“You’re Home” - written by @impala-dreamer​  Angst/explicit - Dean Winchester x reader - 682 words      Another drabble that’s worth mentioning is this short story. It portrays the hunter waking up from a nightmare about Purgatory, Y/N next to him to sooth him. Beka does Dean’s PTSD more justice in 682 words than the writers have ever done on the entire show. A beautiful piece of art.

“Home Is Where You Are” - written by @muggleishly​ Fluff - Daddy!Dean Winchester x reader      Dean comes home from a hunt to his family, and oh my word, it couldn’t be fluffier. Dean as a father melts every fangirl’s heart, but the creator of this lovely little drabble turned it up a notch. Sweet as candy, uplifting and light on its feet. This one will definitely lift your spirits in dark times.

“Handy Man” - written by @deanwanddamons​ Fluff - Dean Winchester x reader - 862 words      Dean fixing a blocked drain under the kitchen sink in a black shirt and Levi’s jeans; what a sight that must be. The writer of this fic is able to describe the scene in great detail. Besides the obvious appreciation of the gorgeous man, it’s great to see him doing something normal and domesticated. It’s the life we all wish for him. A great little drabble for a Sunday morning with a cup of tea by the side.

“One For Tomorrow, One Just For Today” - written by @thoughtslikeaminefield Explicit/fluff - Dean Winchester x reader - 662 words      Sex with Dean is always amazing, but there’s nothing hotter than him singing a classic while he’s doing it. After reading this, that famous song by The Doors will never sound the same. Sit back, relax and listen to the music.

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed the work of the authors above, don’t be afraid to let them know. I’m sure they will appreciate it. Feel free to share!

If you have any suggestions or would like a tag in the future, drop a request in my inbox or send me a message.

Love, Kate

[mmvalentine]

Circus of Dreams, pt 4 | Feysand

Night Circus AU. Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

In the end, no one came that first day. Rhys was not altogether surprised, it wasn't the first time it had happened and it certainly would not be the last.

Despite the lack of crowds, the day was not all bad. Sure, he had spent most of the day pacing his tent alone, but the minutes dancing with Feyre... well he wasn't sure when the last time he'd had that much fun was.

So, at the end of the day, when their official closing time hit and he was free to go back to his caravan, he was in a good mood and whistled as he walked.

Every night, dinner was served in the largest tent. It was an unkempt, sloppy affair, when performers were ravenous and no one was standing on ceremony. Rhys had rolled up his shirt sleeves joined the long table once he had picked up his serving of stew, and those he sat near nodded their acknowledgement without pausing their meal.

A couple of minutes later, he saw Mor enter the tent with Feyre. The ballgown was gone now, but it looked like Mor had not let her change into her faded old dress. Instead, she had Feyre in simple but elegant black wool skirt, and a soft white shirt tucked into it. They spotted Rhys and headed right to him.

"Evening ladies," he said. "Hello Rhysand, move over," Mor said, wriggling down next to him.

Feyre sat more gingerly opposite them, and Rhys' eyes sparkled at him. "It's a little rough in here," he said. "My apologies." "No," Feyre said, "I'm just surprised at how... different it is in here from out there." Rhys nodded. "We put on a beautiful show," he said, "but at night we're just a big messy family. Relaxing when you're off makes it easier to be fully engaged when you're on." Feyre smiled. "It's nice, actually. Dinners at home mostly consisted of shivering and trying to make soup out of bones." "Well then, dig in," Rhys said, and Feyre, not needing further invitation, did so.

Rhys went to sleep that night full and comfortable. But hours later, he woke to the sound of screams and the smell of smoke.

He burst out of his caravan, scanning the area, and soon found the source of the panic. Mor and Feyre's caravan was on fire, heavy benches propped up against the two doors in the side. Dark figures ran off into the night.

"You're not welcome here!" one of them shouted as he ran. Cassian took off after them, but Rhys dove toward the doors. He became aware of Amren beside him, and reached Feyre's door at the same time as Amren shoved aside the bench and yanked open Mor's. They hauled the girls out, coughing and spluttering, and dragged them away from the smoking wagon before letting them rest on the grass. A few of the others had run for buckets of water to douse the flames.

"What in the fuck was that?" Amren snapped. She was looking around furiously, propping Mor up while she searched for answers. Rhys didn't say anything, just sat grimly with Feyre as she continued coughing and checked her over for injuries. Someone ran up with water for them, and to report that the fire was now out.

Soon after, Cassian walked back into the camp, and in each of his hands was the collar of a young man. They dangled in his grip, resentment written over their faces.

"I found these," Cassian growled, addressing Amren. "And two cans of kerosene to boot." She stood, and looked them both over with disgust. "Just what in the hell do you think you're playing at?" she hissed at them. "People could have died." "Not our people," replied one sullenly. He spat at her feet.

Like lighting, Amren reached out and slapped the boy across the fight. "No," she snarled. "My people." She looked at Cassian.

"Say Cassian. Didn't we pass a big, cold looking river on the way in?" "Yes ma'am, I believe we did," was his reply. "Fantastic. Please toss these miserable excuses for men in said river, and let them know if I catch them around here again I will personally break all of their legs." "Yes ma'am." Cassian nodded, and strode off.

Amren pinched the bride of her nose. "Is everyone alright?" she asked. Mor and Feyre just nodded.

"Oh, Mor," Feyre said suddenly. "Your beautiful fabrics."

But Mor just smiled ruefully at her.

"They're just fabrics," she said. "We'll go in tomorrow and see what's left."

"Right," Amren said. "Morrigan, you can come sleep in my caravan. Feyre, go with Rhysand." She addressed the rest of the camp. "Everyone else go back to sleep. We'll leave first thing in the morning."

And with that, she left them. Mor hugged Feyre tightly, and checked again to see if she was okay. When she had ascertained that she was, she followed after Amren. And the rest of the crowd drifted off back to their caravans too.

"Come on," Rhys said gently, and took Feyre's arm under the elbow to help her up. She leaned on him as they walked, shivering slightly at the shock of what had happened.

Back in Rhys' caravan, Rhys had to help Feyre through the cramped space. He would have lit a candle, but after her ordeal, he thought it might be insensitive. So he guided her through the dark, and led her to the bed. Feyre sat down, then suddenly looked up at him with alarm in her eyes.

"Don't worry," he said. "You have the bed, I'll sleep on the floor."

Feyre looked like she was about to protest, but Rhys whipped out a spare blanket and got down before she could say anything. So, Feyre slid in between his sheets, and the thought of it made him shiver a little. He pushed the thought to the side, and closed his eyes.

A moment later, Feyre's voiced reached out though the dark.

"Rhys?" "Yes Feyre?" "They're not... coming back, are they?"

Rhys sat up. "Oh, darling. No, I shouldn't think so. Amren will have Cassian keep watch all night." "Okay," was all she said. "I'm so sorry that happened to you. What a start to your circus career." Feyre was quiet for a moment. "Thanks for pulling me out," she said. "Of course. I'm just glad we got to you quickly."

There was silence again, and Rhys had just started to drop off to sleep, when Feyre spoke again. "Rhys?" "Yes Feyre?" A pause. "I'm so sorry, I feel so deeply foolish. But I just wanted to check that you were still there." Rhys frowned into the dark. "It's not foolish. You were nearly burned alive in your caravan, I wouldn't sleep well either." "I started to drift off, then for some reason I panicked that you weren't there." "Okay. Would... would you like me to hold your hand?" Another pause. "I think that might help."

Rhys shifted closer to the bed, and tapped the frame so that she would know where his hand was. Immediately, he felt her small grip clutching him. He realised that this was the first time he was touching her without gloves, and the warmth of her skin was lovely.

"Mmm," she murmured. "That does help." Feyre yawned. "Rhys?" "Yes Feyre?" he whispered. "Thank you," she said. And shortly after that, she was asleep.

The next day, Rhys woke with a dead arm, but didn't mind. They left early, everyone a little bleary eyed, but with the scorched caravan still scenting the air with the stale smoke, no one complained as they packed up quickly and headed out of town.

Over in the next village, they set up and asked around for a carpenter to come have a look at the burnt wagon. Mor spent some time sifting through the wreckage, pulling out things that were salvageable. Unfortunately, since the boys had done such a thorough job of dousing the wood in kerosene, even though the fire hadn't burned very long the caravan was now unliveable.

They performed to a modest audience that night, and ate in relative quiet, everyone still a bit unsettled after the attack the previous night. Feyre left early, and when Rhys got back to his caravan, he found her sitting on the front step.

He gave her a gentle smile.

"Hello, Feyre darling," he said. "I... still don't have any place to live," she said by way of greeting. "Yes you do," he said. "You can live here."

Feyre turned and looked at his caravan. "It doesn't seem... very proper," she said slowly. "Well, neither does running away with the circus, and you've done that already." "I suppose that's true," Feyre mused. "If you're uncomfortable, I'm sure we can make other arrangements. Most people live with a partner or friend already, but they can always make room." Feyre shook her head. "I wouldn't want to put anyone out like that. I'm happy to stay if you are happy to have me." She paused. "Or, maybe I should just go home." "Nonsense," Rhys said quickly. "You haven't even seen half the things that need your attention. There's a massive clockwork pony that you would just love."

And so she stayed.

****

OH LOOK I COULDN'T MANAGE 2 DAYS OFF BECAUSE THE TRAFFIC STOPPED AND MY DOPAMINE SUPPLY GOT CUT OFF AND NOW I'M PANIC POSTING why am i like this you guys

TAGLIST: @ghostlyrose2 @highladysith @stardelia @feysand-babies @tillyrubes10 @ratabrasileira

[crybabyjam]

ship: todochako 

rating: g

length: 3k

summary: Todoroki picks up hitch-hiker!Uraraka.

c/w parental death (past), joking about murder

deleted from twitter, written for a former friend

---

The sun beats down heavy as Ochako tightens the straps of her backpack. In it was three changes of clothes, some stale bread, her dead phone.

It was only mid-morning but already she was sweating her absolute ass off.

She runs her fingers through her choppy hair, uneven on one edge because she hadn't had a mirror when she'd taken a rusty pair of scissors to them. Now she wishes she'd just shaved it all off, if only to save herself from a sweaty, overheated neck now.

Her parents had loved it when she'd had long hair.

Ochako remembers how her mom would wash the long strands for her every weekend, even when Ochako huffed and puffed and said she could do it herself.

Her mom always took the time to wash it gently, and condition with something sweet smelling— "Because a sweet girl like you deserves sweet hair, too."

And how her dad would braid it every time she visited, even when Ochako would have to undo it the next day. He would take his strong, worker's hands and lift each length of hair carefully so that he didn't tug on her tender scalp.

Now that they were gone, Ochako didn't see the point in keeping her hair long. It just slowed her down. It just made her /sad/.

She sighs, and steps out of the way when a car plows through a puddle right beside her.

Her legs get soaked, but it isn't anything worse than the day prior, when a truck had soaked her from head to toe.

Ochako just sighs and brushes the muddy water droplets from her already dirty legs.

It's a good thing she was out of socks, or else she'd have to start worrying about her shoes molding at this point.

She's just begun kicking her shoe off, to finish the rest of the trek up to the next city barefoot, when a car pulls up to a stop beside her.

"Are you alright?" A low voice asks, to her left. Ochako startles and twists on her heel.

She almost ignores it, because cars like that didn't stop for hitch-hikers like her.

But the car follows her a few more feet as she slows to a stop.

When she looks over her shoulder, confused, the man in the car tilts his head at her and nods.

"Are you alright?" He repeats. "I saw you get wet."

"Ah!" Ochako yells, and then lowers her voice. Geez, where are your manners, Uraraka? "I'm fine! Sorry."

The man blinks, and Ochako belatedly notices that he has the most stunning, grey eyes. Like darkened silver.

"Why should you be sorry?" He asks with a frown.

And then, he shakes his head.

"Do you need a ride? It's dangerous to get in a stranger's car, but you shouldn't walk around barefoot. Glass would hurt." He pauses, and then adds. "Probably less than murder, but I promise not to murder you."

Ochako is speechless.

But not speechless enough not to /laugh/ at the absurdity of the stranger.

She feels it bubble up in her chest like boiling water, and it floats out of her ugly, like when a pot spills the water and burns on the stove burner.

The man just watches, silent, as she wipes tears from her eye and keeps on laughing. He just leans against the steering wheel and waits patiently, face completely deadpan.

He's /serious/, and that just makes it funnier.

She gasps for breath as she leans against his car, one shoe falling to the pavement and skipping beneath the undercarriage, shit.

Ochako's laugh starts up again as she drops to her knees to retrieve it.

When she comes back up, knees blackened by sidewalk dust, and hands darkened by asphalt, the man is smiling. Just barely.

"I guess murder /would/ hurt more than stepping on glass." She agrees. "Depending on the type of murder."

He murmurs the words underneath his breath, eyebrows furrowing.

"You're right," he says, troubled.

She leans into the rolled down window, arms crossing to hide the ripped hem of t-shirt.

"You sure you /promise/ not to murder me? I kind of need my life."

Well. All things considering, it was pretty much all she had left. She couldn't exactly afford the house after her parents died. They hadn't been able to finish the down payments, and none of them (including Ochako) had enough savings to keep her afloat.

So, hitch-hiking. Walking to nowhere and hoping for more.

A few miles in an air-conditioned car was more than what she had, so she'll take it.

The man turns serious, though. The smile wipes off of his face— not replaced with a frown, but replaced with another deadpan look. He nods his head, making eye-contact the entire time, and says,

"I promise not to murder you."

Well.

He promised, at least. Ochako still had a little bit of mace in her pocket, if she needed it.

So she gets in the car.

---

His name is Todoroki Shouto and he has an open duffle bag of yen, two pillows with embroidered pillowcases, a shattered phone, and a half-full photo album in his backseat.

Ochako stares at the photo album instead of the other three things, because she definitely does not want to get murdered, thank you very much.

He was a cute baby. Two-toned hair from birth, and big eyes that only had one expression: wide. Ochako traces her ragged thumb nail across one of the pictures, where he's covered in cake frosting at his second birthday, and accidentally creases the polaroid image.

She hurriedly flips the page.

"Are you hungry?"

"I'm fine," Ochako mumbles, ignoring her tummy which immediately begins to grumble in argument. She flips another page to muffle the noise, and comes across more empty pockets than full ones.

From the way there's the edge of one polaroid still caught in one of the slots, Ochako assumes that they used to be just as full as the rest.

She flips to the back, and a roll of film flops into her lap.

"Do you even still have a camera for this?" Ochako asks, holding the strange, almost novel-looking thing up to the waxing light of the returning sun. Then she brings it back down to the shadows in case that might ruin the film inside, oops.

"At home," Todoroki says, low. Her shoes are in his lap, because he wanted her to have more room to look at the photo album. Ochako had tried to just place them on the floor of the car, but he looked so earnest in his offer that she hadn't been able to say no without feeling bad.

Besides, she had a feeling he was pretty harmless. Weird, but who wasn't?

"Oh, are you moving or something?" Ochako asks, and then immediately grimaces at the invasion of privacy. "I mean… 'cause of the stuff in your backseat."

"Moving…" Todoroki repeats, focusing on the road. They're driving slow enough that almost everyone passes by them, but Ochako got pretty motion-sick so she appreciated it.

Todoroki leans back in his seat, both hands at the very apex of the steering wheel. It's outlined in a leather cover and is so shiny that it almost looks metallic. Expensive as fuck, probably.

Everything about him looked pretty expensive, actually. The car was brand new, from this year. Still had the new smell and everything.

Ochako was actually pretty glad he insisted on the shoe-thing, if only to prevent mud stains.

Although his pants /did/ look pretty designer. Ah, fuck.

"Yes," Todoroki says, after the long moments of silence. "I'm moving."

"Oh! That's… fun. That's fun!" Ochako nods.

Todoroki turns them off of the road, and pulls into a parking spot. Ochako blinks past the raindrops on her side of the window, and squints out at the illuminated signs.

A restaurant. Ah, /fuck/. Ochako pats her shorts for her wallet, as if she could even /pretend/ it had money in it. All it had was her ID (almost expired) and a coupon for leg waxing.

"Do you want to come in with me?" Todoroki asks, turning to her completely. The seatbelt gets caught, and it does that thingy it does where it locks and gets tighter until you take it all the way off. He doesn't seem to mind.

Ochako smiles, though even she can feel how strained it is. "Ah, I'm fine. I should probably go actually, but thank you for the ride. The rain should stop soon, so…"

"Oh."

Todoroki frowns, glancing at the arm rest between them. He's engaged the parking brake even though they aren't on an incline, and Ochako's smile relaxes to something more real.

"It was really nice to meet you," she says. "I'd give you my phone number but I kinda didn't pay the bill." (Since, uh, last year, but he didn't need to know that.)

"It was nice to meet you too," Todoroki says. "I can buy you food."

"Oh," Ochako parrots, dumbly. Her eyes dart to the yen-bag and she hurries to shake her head. "I couldn't—"

"I don't mind. It's my dad's money— and he hates me. And I hate him, so." Todoroki finally takes off his too-tight seatbelt and it rattles noisily as it smacks against the car door.

"I…"

Ochako isn't sure how to approach /that/ particular landmine. Nor is she sure how she's supposed to resist free food. When had she last eaten. Two days ago, or something? She'd kinda been ignoring it, but the walking helped.

Now that she's technically resting, she can feel her tummy about to throw a conniption.

Todoroki blinks his wide eyes at her as he waits, not making a move. His blinks are slow, like a cat, and his eyes flicker back and forth between her own.

She sighs heavily, but a grin is already parting her lips. "You're a strange one, Todoroki."

"Am I?"

"I don't have any money, so you have to pay for all of it," she warns.

"I will."

"And I eat a lot! I haven't eaten in a while."

"Okay."

"And… and I want my shoes back."

Todoroki hands her the shoes. There's mud residue on his pants and the bottom of his shirt.

But he has a small smile on his face as he watches her struggle to put her shoes on in the closed space, so maybe it was alright.

---

Shouto watches as Uraraka stuffs two donut holes in her mouth, licking away the powdered sugar that paints across her lips. It looks like snow when it dusts down to her shorts, and smears chalky residue on her thighs.

He hands her a napkin, and she blushes pretty like a sunset paints ocean water pink when it sets at night.

"Sorry for the mess," she says quietly.

"It's okay. Is it good?"

"It's good!" She wiggles in her seat, and it reminds Shouto of a really happy hamster. "Do you want some?"

She's very beautiful. Her hair is cut in a way he's never really seen before, but it frames her face nicely. He likes it more than his almost-bowl cut. Some of her hair tickles across her shoulder, but she ignores it as she holds a donut hole out to him with a toothpick.

She keeps holding it as he bites down on the warm, cooked dough. He'd never really been fed by someone before. Well, as a baby— sure. But he had a feeling this was different. Was it different?

Shouto chews thoughtfully, and Uraraka smiles at him. She doesn't seem to mind feeding him. She stabs another one with the same toothpick and holds it out for him again, one hand underneath to catch the crumbs.

"Yummy, right? Thanks for buying them! I'll…" She flinches, interrupting herself. Her smile dims a little, like she'd lost power. "I'd offer to pay you back but, uh… ahaha, you know?"

Shouto /doesn't/ know, but he nods anyway. "I can buy you more," he says, soft. "You can take them with you. When you leave."

She uses the toothpick to prod and poke at the remaining few donut holes. They roll in the leftover powdered sugar at the bottom of the box.

"I'll be alright. But thank you." Her eyes get watery at the bottom lashes, and Shouto frowns. "You've been really kind."

When she laughs next, it's thick like she's close to sobbing. Her voice is shaky. Shouto doesn't like it- liked it much better when she was laughing /happily/ instead.

"Thanks for not murdering me," she adds. "This is probably the most fun I've had in a while."

"You can stay. I can drive you anywhere you want."

"Oh!" Uraraka jumps in her seat, as if he'd yelled it. He hadn't really spoken any louder than before, but he clears his throat and speaks even softer anyway.

"We just met, but I can take you anywhere you need to go. And I have enough money for the both of us. I really enjoy your company."

They're pulled off at an empty lot near a supermarket. Somewhere off in the distance is a park. The children there are loud, voices echoing in the evening ambiance.

Uraraka looks out towards the noise, but he can see her swallow heavily.

"That's kind of dangerous, isn't it? We just met."

She says it like how she says other things that are meant to be teasing. He nods anyway.

"It is. You can drive, if that makes you feel better. Or you can sit in the backseat. I would have bought a bigger car if I knew I would meet you today."

She laughs again, starting with a snort and ending with a giggle. It makes his heart beat faster in his chest, and he isn't sure if he's nervous or happy to hear it.

"What if /I'm/ the murderer?" Uraraka stabs one of the donut holes and brings it up to her mouth. She smiles at him when he frowns, and then smiles wider when he shrugs.

"If it happens, it happens."

"/Todoroki/." She slaps her palm against her forehead and sinks down in her seat. "That's the most dangerous mindset I've ever heard."

"I'm sorry?" He glances down at her the further she sinks, but she doesn't seem particularly angry. It looks like she's fighting, but on the inside. "It's not that dangerous."

"It's pretty dangerous."

She brushes her legs clean. Sits up straight and looks out the window again. Her breath fans out across the glass, fogging it.

He rolls the window down for her, and she does that snorting laugh again.

"You're a funny guy, Todoroki."

"Am I?"

"You are." Uraraka shifts in her seat, to pull her legs cross-crossed. There's one donut hole left in the box, and she rolls it around a few more times before she pokes it with that same toothpick and shoves it in her mouth.

As she chews, she glares at him. Almost like she can't see him and needs glasses. He leans in closer so that she can find what she's looking for.

"You're funny in both ways. Weird… but you make me laugh."

She closes up the box, fitting the toothpick between her teeth so that she can absently chew on it.

"So you're… 'moving'," she says, finally. "- and I don't have a home anymore. Where would we even go?"

Shouto glances past the parking lot, at the semi-distant street that is starting to pile with traffic after a brief lull. But his eyes inevitably drag back over to her.

Uraraka stares back, cheeks pink. A small smile grows on her face. She runs her fingernail across the edge of the empty donut box. He'd have to figure out a place to recycle it if he could.

There are so many places they could go. Somewhere warm, towards a beach. Or somewhere quiet, with wide hills and short buildings. To a festival. To a shoe store.

"Everywhere?"

"/Everywhere/?" Uraraka shakes her head, exasperated. "What about when we run out of money?"

Shouto shrugs. Uraraka laughs again. Her hand drifts to the middle console, palm up, and Shouto watches it for a while.

Then she leans over to grab his hand. Her fingers are warm, rough at the tips but soft everywhere else. She would look pretty in nail polish. /Prettier/, rather- if it were possible.

He maybe had a crush on her. Was this what love felt like? Soft hands and warm smiles? He liked it.

"I-"

She interrupts by leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. It's soft, like a feather landing on snow. "Take me everywhere, then. And then I'll give you my answer."

Shouto, dazed, touches his fingers to his cheek. He forgets to stop holding her hand, so hers come along with it. She doesn't seem to mind. "Your answer?"

"On whether or not I'll stay," she says, cheeky. "So you'd better make it a fun ride."

Shouto squeezes his other hand down on the steering wheel, if only to keep his heartbeat in his veins so that the organ doesn't leap out of his chest and act a fool. He accidentally steps on the gas, and the car revs in protest.

Uraraka laughs again. She tightens her hold on his hand and pulls it back down between them. He squeezes it back.

And when they get back on the road again, fifteen minutes later, Uraraka has gone from laughing to singing loud to the radio and dancing in her seat. She's pure joy.

---

It stops raining, and the world feels brighter.

[stopeatingwhales]

“dance with me,” x noel gallagher

this was one of my earliest requests and i’m so unbelievably sorry it’s so overdue! i honestly went all out with writing this (it’s the longest fic i’ve ever written from this date). my honest face by inhaler helped me write the ending/the last part to this, so thank you inhaler anons ;) x

Pairing: high school noel x reader

Warnings: low form of assault, but it’s very brief (from another character - not noel) + A LOT of softness :)

Word count: 4.772

Requested by anon, I’m so sorry it’s so late <3

༉‧₊˚✧

“No, I want you, she’s so heavy is the best song!” I exclaimed, throwing my hands up in the air, a repulsive look plastered on my face. “Imagine thinking that Polythene Pam was the best,” I added, my loathsome expression increasing in disgust.

I was at Noel’s house, sitting on his bed in his shared room, accompanied by his younger brother Liam as Abbey Road by the Beatles blasted out of his record player. The atmosphere of the space was extremely calming - Noel sometimes joining in on Oh! Darling as it spun around on the player, his guitar strumming the notes lightly projecting the song louder, whilst his knee bounced up and down to measure the beat. I laid down on his bed, adorning his scent whiffed all over the sheets as I played with a few of my hair strands, humming along to Paul McCartney’s voice quietly, not interrupting the soothing sounds escaping from Noel’s guitar. The occasional curse word slipped out of Liam’s mouth - his eyes pinned on the simple question written on his homework sheet. He hadn’t done any of his work for the past two weeks, receiving multiple detentions - to which he didn’t attend - until the headteacher of our school decided to threaten him with an expulsion. During the time I was with them, I had slightly helped on a few of the questions littering his maths sheet, hinting at the answers so he would be able to properly figure them out himself. However, trying to teach a naughty 12-year-old how to do long division was exactly like being able to balance a spoon on your nose whilst laughing. Completely and utterly impossible.

Me going over to Noel’s place wasn’t unknown; I tended to go over to theirs once or twice during the week, most times after school because I had nothing better to do. We usually hung out in his room, mainly because we were both drained from how exhausting school always was, and plus, we didn’t need to go anywhere to have a laugh together, we always did. No matter where we were, we somehow found a way to brighten everything up - perhaps by smoking a joint together in a plain field, watching the sunset as we impatiently waited for another rave to pass by us, or by spending our evenings in relaxing moments like these, listening to our favourite albums without a care in the world, the occasional argument slipping out of our mouths about which was the best song - usually ending up in Noel ignoring me for the sum of 10 minutes before I gave in and apologised for my stupid remark. There’s no best song by The Beatles, they’re legendary for a reason.

“Shut it, otherwise I’m ignoring you again,” Noel replied, staring at me with both his eyes squinted together. I lifted my head up from his pillow, scoffing. Knowing this was going to happen, I didn’t reply to his silly remark, dropping my head back down onto his pillow once again. Despite the groggy feeling partnering in the room due to the heater being on, his scent was sweet. He smelt like a packet of heavy Marlboro cigarettes, whisked in with cheap aftershave from the shop down the road because he’s skint from buying too many cigarettes and ‘forgot to buy one the other day’. Nevertheless, it was alluring. I adored his scent, mainly because it reminded me of how the littlest things in life can mean the most to you. It continuously reminded me that doing simple things like these add to the empowering lifestyle of being a teenager in a dying city; Manchester was left to rot due to the prime minister focusing all her time and dedication to unimportant things, rather than helping the poor and lower class. It gave us a sense of freedom, that without the higher class evoking their worry in our troubles, they forgot about everything and let us be. We could do whatever we desired now, whether it be partying until you’re unable to walk for three days, or skipping school because you can’t be bothered to see people that only retaliate at you for petty reasons. It was the bittersweet rivers of life, we were poor but we had fun with it, dancing until our last breath before dawn.

“Noel,” Liam said, lifting his head up from his crinkled worksheet. “Don’t you have that school dance soon?” he added, the temperature of the room now feeling like it was upped one hundred degrees due to my cheeks reddening. Since me and Noel didn’t have that big of a friendship group, and both of us having somewhat a troubled love life for our age, our minds never brushed past the thought of going to the leavers dance. It was itching towards the end of the school year, meaning that we were going to leave school, so going and taking part in the fun of a last dance was quite hyped up. My mind sometimes brushed the idea of me and Noel going together, but we were only friends. Plus, wouldn’t that just be weird?

I tried to subtly raise my head to look at Noel, my eyes trailing from the plain white ceiling to his slim-structured body. The neck of his acoustic guitar was gripped gently by his left hand, his right caressing the strings softly as his playing came to a close from the question hanging in the air. He shifted around in his seat a bit, adjusting where the guitar sat, before clearing his throat and answering the question. I was tempted to ask him the same thing too, my curiosity over the subject now being the only thing pitted in my mind. “Well, yeah but I haven’t got no one to go with, init?” He said, staring straight at Liam, then the piece of paper lying in front of him on his bed. My heart sank a little as that sentence launched out of his mouth abruptly, my thoughts now following on with unspeakable things of what I could’ve answered to that. I knew he really wanted to go with someone, but there wasn’t anyone who would be willing to go out with him, even for just one night.

“Couldn’t you just go with Y/N?” Liam asked, turning his head to look at me. My eyes widened expeditiously, my crimson cheeks now turning to fire as I chewed on my bottom lip. The heat bubbling in my body caused me to feel a slight tingle at my lower back, the feeling of sweat beginning to form on all the spots that weren’t visible to both boys - the skin I owned underneath. “Unless you’ve got someone to go with, but I doubt that,” Liam added, chuckling after his words.

Ignoring his comment, I stayed silent for a few seconds, my eyes darting to my fingers as I fiddled with them - figuring out what to answer. “I mean, we could just go as friends I guess?” I said, now staring straight at Noel. He stared back at me, his eyebrows shifting around a bit, contemplating the idea that was now punctured in his brain. “There’s nothing wrong with that,” I added, reassuring that I did feel the same way at first - friends shouldn’t be going together - when it’s no harm dressing up and having a couple drinks with your best friend, we do that all the time anyways.

“I suppose so,” He replied, nodding his head as he darted his head back to the record player, reaching out for the opened water bottle placed by the record player - taking a short sip of it before carrying on his sentence. “But you have to admit Polythene Pam is the best song,”

~~~

As I walked through the school gates I was for once welcomed with a feeling which wasn’t dread. I gazed around the mundane, dimmed colours of the school’s front whilst anticipation filled my veins whole, adoring my body like a little child, after begging and begging for minutes on end for their guardian to buy them a treat they had been eyeing at for what felt like a year, their carer gives in from the child’s immediate persistence, causing the kid to be on a cloud-nine-level of euphoria and exhilaration. For once, I felt excited; apprehension for the tales ahead buzzed through my body, for my usual, stale state taking a departure once my eyes made contact with the known building for once. Tonight I was going to enjoy myself, even if I despised the majority of the people who were attending. This was one of the last chances I got to enjoy myself at school - and since we’re going for the its-the-last-day-of-the-world vibe - I might as well make the most of it while it lasts.

Walking up to the main building, I saw bright, flashy colours being projected from inside the large hall, reminiscing me of the many raves I had hazily attended with Noel whilst we were drunk off of our heads. The sparkling lights, the huge domes of crowded, drunken teenagers - just like me and him - trying to find a place to fit in, accidentally stumbling into an open, warm embrace to another dimension crammed with unknown faces, an introduction to the exact same embrace they’d be entangled in when they go back home to their parents in the middle of the night - whom were sick to their stomach in worry because they didn’t know where their child was. You belonged to your families, but you refused to believe that life was as bland as it had become; there’s more to life than studying for exams, everyone says. You don’t want to end up like the small percentage of people who refuse to live their lives because it's the only one they’ve got. You want to live your life because it is the only one you’ve got.

My shoes echoed a light tap on the concrete as I paced slowly, my mind entranced in thought, wondering the crowds I’d be exposed to once I set foot inside the chattering room.  As I made my way to the glass door, I stared at my reflection briefly, adjusting my hair a little bit due to it falling out of place from the small gusts of wind that had accompanied me on my way to the school. A rush of nervousness focused on my mind until I gripped on the handle, pushing the door open, revealing the view of teenagers dancing about, drinking, laughing or slobbering on each other's faces. My anxieties were cleared when I saw every girl dolled up in dresses; the one I was currently engulfed in wasn’t that nice - it being the only dress I’ve had in my wardrobe for a couple years (since I wholeheartedly have a brutal hate for dresses). I was forced to keep it in my closet in case there was a time and a place I needed it, for unexpected times like these,  a leavers disco, my date being my one and only best friend Noel Gallagher. I was astounded to realise it actually sat on me the same as it used to, only a little bit shorter due to me growing in height. I was the same height as Noel, yet we would always have arguments over who was taller - always being shushed by Liam as he was figuring how to write a paragraph describing what happens in Act 5 of Macbeth. Get a room, you two.

Wandering on the sidelines of the grand hall, I picked up on the little decorations which had been ripped off the walls from careless students. The colour of the room was a simple blue, making it quite hard to study everything from the human eyes. Bits of what seemed to be silky red ribbon - the flashing lights of the room making it quite hard to figure out what shade it was - ripped up tissue paper, and a few bursted balloons. Music was playing, blasting out of huge Marshall amps, stacked upon each other on the main stage, where years worth of plays and performances were repetitively played almost every half term, my mind reminiscing on the first play I did in year 7 as a side character. The many screams that escaped people’s mouths as the chorus of Boys Don’t Cry by the Cure, prevented me from living out the memories for the last time as I set foot in the hall. Humming along to the melody, I waved my arms around in the air - not too far out, in case I accidentally come into contact with someone rushing past me - my fingers twiddling together as I spun myself around slightly. The ambience of the room felt very uplifting, reminding me of, yet again, those fun times I had experienced with Noel on the many late nights of the summer holidays.

My eyes briefly caught contact with a table as I was walking - the drinks stand. It sat straight ahead of me, yet it was positioned facing the crowds of people mingling about singing along to the new song that began playing. As each step began bringing me closer to it, I attempted to analyse what was suited up for options, squinted my eyes together. There were four fish-bowl-like tubs, with nothing but flavoured beverage inside them, all of them being a different shade - one lighter than the other, one darker than the other. Once I made it to the table, I continued to vary my choice, my eyes completely enthralled by the options. Bowls were left almost empty, some fully empty. As I placed my finger on the one which had the most drink in it, I squinted my eyes together again, wondering if it was the best choice.

“You come here alone?” chirped up a voice in front of me, behind the table. As I raised my head up, I met eyes with the person, noticing that it was one of mine and Noel’s mates. There were stacks of paper cups lined up behind him, along with one small stack sat on the wooden table beside his stood body - for easy access when having a lot of customers, especially at the start of the dance, when all the people attending want is a drink to murder the awkward atmosphere building up in the place.

Laughing lightly, I smiled. “Well, I’m supposed to be here with Noel,” I said, quickly scanning the room after to see if he had made it yet - clearly not. “But he doesn’t seem to have arrived here  yet,”

I heard a laugh escape the boy's mouth. “You and Noel?” he asked, grabbing a spoonful of the drink I was eyeing merely seconds previous, snatching a paper cup from the pile lined up perfectly beside him, gathering some of the drink before splashing the liquid into the cup. “I was wondering when that was going to happen,” he added, more or so mumbled, as if he was trying to hide it from me. I noticed he rolled his eyes slightly, his eyebrows furrowing together as he dropped the spoon he was pouring the drink with back into its original position - inserted into the bowl.

“Sorry?” I asked, confused by his comment. He handed me the drink after swishing it around in his hand a couple times - perhaps to check if there was enough to the point it wouldn’t spill, or maybe because he was stunned by my upfront approach against his words, mustering responses in his head before spitting back at me. It felt like there was a lot on his mind - a lot he wanted to say, most likely things to me.

His eyes wandered around the table separating us. Fixating both his palms on the table, keeping it steady, he sighed, sucking in one side of his mouth before exhaling. “Well, he’s more of a pretentious twat if I’m honest,”

I was shocked. My jaw was practically on its way to drop to the ground and smash at full force - as if it were being thrown off the tallest tower in the world. Why did he say that? “Plus, he’s your best mate, are you that lonely not to go with anyone else?” he scoffed, clearly aiming the question towards why I hadn’t gone with him. There was speculation of him liking me between conversations I had with our small friend group at school, but I tended to avoid bringing it up in conversation; I got too uncomfortable. We weren’t close, he was always there simply whenever we hung out at school. Apart from that, we barely ever saw him, let alone know anything about him.  

“Come on Y/N, let’s dance,” he said, circling the table, walking round to where I was standing, my eyes facing the bowls. He grabbed my arm roughly - turning me to look directly at him. “You deserve better than that fucker!” he exclaimed, attempting to drag me closer to him, as he pulled us to the middle of the room, where everyone was dancing. Gripping onto the beverage tightly in my free hand, I pulled it close to me, in case I’d manage to spill anything on the floor, becoming the cause of someone’s injury from slipping and ripping their clothes. His body language seemingly began to turn more aggressive as we made it to the centre of the room, the pressure being put on my wrist getting more and more tight. The idea of me and Noel dancing in the room played on his mind as it did with mine too, noticing the amount of people dancing with their significant others. Perhaps the reason he kept adding so much strength was because he was jealous, the same sort of jealousy when you find out two of your supposed best friends had gone out together and forgot to ask you to come - when without a doubt deliberately did it since they didn’t want you attending. His grip was slowly seeming out more pain in my body.

My hand began to ache; the force he was pushing onto my wrist was causing my hand to tingle from the lack of blood circulation. The idea of throwing my drink at him, knowing I wouldn’t drink it anymore due to what he was doing to me, “Get off of me, you bitch!” I shrieked, jittering my hand around in all ways possible, causing him to turn his face to look at me, scold me perhaps, until I took the chance and threw my drink straight at him - aiming for the eyes like pepper spray gauging to the root of your eyes, blinding you in immediate pain. I heard him shout, instantly releasing his hold from my hand, as I headed to leave the room straight away. Practically everyone had their eyes glued to the pair of us, staring both of us questioningly, the sound of my heels clanking against the wooden floor ringing through my ears painfully as I exited the immensely tensed stiff room.

~~~

Walking outside of the building, I made my way towards the gate I once entered, couching to lean against the wall that was placed beside it. The aged wall felt cold, the little bumps of hardened cement sticking out of the bricks digging into my dress, eventually into my back. The contrast of my heated body against the freezing wall brought a feeling of relaxation - the stressful situation that had previously occurred just moments ago finally began departing from its connection to my thoughts. I held my face in my hands, slowly feeling my wrist go from its numbed state to a softened feeling of fuzz; I moved it around a little bit, noticing I had somewhat control of it now. The past tingly feeling I felt on my hand had come to my head instead, as I started to weave myself into thoughts about what people would take and think from the situation. I was almost certain someone was going to mention it to everyone and everywhere imaginable - casual teenager gossip, a girl got assaulted, spread it around!

As the skies unfolded newer, darker shades, welcoming the night, the stale breeze picked up on itself, cluttering my hair, throwing it to other parts of my face - like how it was before I had entered the building, this time as if I had rolled down a mountain and stood up injury free. Collecting my arms in an embrace to warm me up, I leaned my head back against the brick wall, staring at the twinkling night sky. It was surprising how much light the moon emitted. You didn’t need that many lamp posts at all, unless you were walking in an area where the moon was unable to shimmer its colours: a dull alleyway, where there's only one small light hanging on the wall, basically broken, a flickering light flashing out of it, just managing you to get through the dust and dirt cascaded around you. Almost telling you that, you’ll be able to survive your hardships, as long as you believe in the light to keep shining.

Staring at my shoes, I admired the little sparkles glimmering from my shoes. They were small, short-cut heels that I put on to make myself look fit for the part of a schoolgirl ready to depart from her beautiful teenage life and enter a world of womanhood. I was growing up, and I just hoped that the future that was slowly unravelling itself to me was going to be better than I anticipated it to be. Tonight went to shit, though.

“Y/N?” a voice said, speaking up as it walked through the gate’s entrance. Straight away I was able to know who it was. Noel.

Moving my head from the view of the night sky, I locked eyes with Noel - who was standing in front of me, concern miffed on his eyes. He was clothed in a cheap looking suit, perhaps one he found in his mother's closet which belonged to his father previously, or maybe one he stole from a friend. It fit him perfectly, as if the brand tailored to his bodily structure. His hair looked as if he had done it properly for once, rather than having it in its usual, worn down state. “Why are you sitting alone, and outside in the freezing cold?”  

I scoffed, recalling the situation. However, I avoided mentioning it; it would only make the rest of the evening more dreadful to experience. “Rough night,” I mumbled, turning my head to the glowing skies again. “Where were you?” I asked, attempting to change the subject expeditiously. Thankfully, it worked.

“Thought it started at ten,” he replied, walking to lean on the wall beside me, but not sitting like I was. He shuffled his feet a little bit, small, minuscule rocks causing a scraping sound to ripple out from underneath. It was a soothing sound at first, the coarse scratches against the floor reminding me of walking in the middle of a sea of leaves in a park in autumn, completely emptied, without a soul to be seen when there's not a single tree alive and blooming anymore. A ghost town, when in summer would be compressed with thousands of people trying to get past the sweaty, sticky air causing you to cough a couple times. You walk through, stomping on whatever leaf your shoe comes into contact with, a crisp, crunchy sound mounting from it. You slow your pace, wanting to breathe in the cool air, capture the moment before it’s too late and you’re getting your keys to unlock your front door. “Guess not,”

Sighing, I shook my head. “It’s fine, don’t worry, really,” I answered, my eyes trailing to the school building once again. “It’s not like you missed out on anything,”

As if on cue, once my eyes made contact with the place, the loud music that was being projected out of it came to a halt - cutting off mid song, forming goose bumps on my arm out of frustration. You don’t cut off a song halfway, patience, please. I’d always say to Noel, when he got sick and tired of listening to I want you (She’s so heavy) for the fourth time. We’ve listened to it four times! Regardless, you twat. You don’t cut off good music.

I heard Noel snicker lightly, knowing I would get bothered - even if I didn’t physically show it. What was replaced with the rasp, echoing sounds of some random dance song, was the music I was silently waiting for all night. The slow dancing song. The most memorable moment of the night. In all honesty, the song that was playing was bad - but that’s not the point.

As the music progressed on, I imagined myself in the hall, slow dancing with Noel. Tonight made me realise something: over the past year and a bit of mine and his friendship blossoming, he became someone that I needed in my life, in my future. Like how tea needs its milk and sugar. Like how to write you need a pen. You couldn’t take one or the other out of the equation; it wouldn’t make sense - at all. It was weird enough knowing we used to hate each other in class, not because someone said something to the other to piss them off, neither of us really didn’t know. We just hated each other’s presence - until we both shared a spliff together one morning before school; I had forgotten my last cigarette at home, and him - not exactly knowing why he did it - offered to have a hit of his.

“Dance with me,” he said, lifting his body off off the wall, once again standing right in front of me.

“What?”

“Every girl deserves a dance,” he started grabbing my hand, preparing himself to pull me up. Our eyes made stale contact, his brunette eyes interlocking with mine. They had a certain shine to them under the moonlight, a certain twinkle I was never able to notice before. “Especially you,” he added, dragging me up from the icy, dirty floor.

My heart fluttered as he pulled my body close to his, his hand adorning my hip as his other held my hand and pulled it closely to his chest. My grin was as wide as the sun in 360 degree view, heating up my face in a light blush, not noticeable in the dark. A part of me felt as if he noticed; his small smile widened slightly when the rush of warmth embraced my skin. I placed my free hand on his shoulder, allowing my fingers to feel the cheap fabric he was wearing. I didn’t care how expensive or how low-priced, all I needed was Noel, no one else. He knew me like no one else did.

Pulling Noel closer to my body, we began swaying, the soft sounds of the music playing in the background. I’m sure everyone else in the town would be able to hear the music at one point; they used an unreasonable amount of amps for the songs. I hugged his body, adoring his scent once again. The same, cheap, worn down smell, whiffed with what smelt like a hit of weed, perhaps to calm himself down. He looked quite nervous when I first saw him. He was nervous, for me.

“Y/N,” he said, causing me to lift my head from his shoulder. I stared into his obscure, enthralling orbs, my heart softening. His pupils were dilated, his bottom lip sank into his mouth. He seemed anxious, worried about what was happening, until he exhaled his breath, a breath seeming like it was meant to escape decades ago, and cocked his head to the side, leaning in.

Heart pounding, I did the same, as our lips brushed against one another's. The kiss felt extremely overdue, as if it was meant to happen on the morning we first bonded on our new knowledge of our shared habit. He tasted exactly like how I imagined: sweet. Sweet with a hint of honey. Sweet with a hint of hunger, as if this was needed far, far long ago. This kiss was a response to every conversation we ever had, every lock of the eyes, every embrace. We continued swaying whilst our lips adventured on the feeling of something new. Love.

So when you ask me, how was your school dance? Because you like to push your nose into everyone else’s business, I’ll tell you, it was the best night of my life, like the end of all things usually is.

[the-creative-lounge-blog]

Third Shift Kakashi - A Lounge Round Robin Story

In this modern AU in-server event for November, Loungers tell the tale of Kakashi's night shift at a convenience store/gas station one sentence at a time.

What is a round robin story? A round robin story is a story that is written by multiple people. Participants take turns contributing a sentence. The last sentence is sent to the next person, who adds their sentence, and then the process repeats through an established amount of time (our event lasted one week).

Participants in Third Shift Kakashi were contacted via DM with the last sentence, and they replied with one new sentence.

Often, round robin stories don’t make sense and they’re meant to make us laugh. To ensure this, a ridiculous topic was chosen from among the MANY fantastic plot bunnies that are Kakashi Lounge-originals:

Third shift Kakashi: Our favorite tired ninja dork punches in at 10pm to begin his third shift at the 7-11 (or Speedway, Circle K, Kwik Trip, or your country's equivalent of a 24-hour gas station/convenience store). Strange things happen during his nightshift but participants decide what those things are. The Slurpee machine gains sentience. Ōtsutsuki aliens land in the parking lot. Cheeto-fingers Obito tries to steal jerky. Deidara tries to use a fake ID to buy beer. Granny Chiyo comes in and pays with pennies. Any and all of these are believable occurrences from 10pm-6am, and more. The weirder, the better.

The only rules were to keep it rated T, and no romantic pairings.

This dumpster fire masterpiece of a round robin story was written by: @maiikawriter, @fleuraison7, Kitera_Matar, /vastments, @mouseymightymarvellous, @thetoxicstrawberry, @myaekingheart, @mallml, @nibbler747, @syusukewrites, @asiriyep, @azuzel23, @tenzosnewleaf, and @hkandiu (all contributed sentences are in italics and each are double-spaced) with opening and closing paragraphs written by @ohayohimawari:

Kakashi sighed as he punched in twelve minutes late to his shift. He’d been late enough times to warrant a written warning from management, but that threat was nothing compared to what he experienced during his overnight shifts at Konoha’s 24/7 convenience store. He pulled his book out of his back pocket with more hope than expectation that he’d actually find time to read amidst the strange things that occurred between 10 pm and 6 am. 

Yukiko and her lover were just getting around to second base and ready to confess their love in this chapter when he’d had to leave for work.

Kakashi pocketed the worn Icha Icha volume reluctantly, hoping for a quiet shift so that he could dive into it again later, and took his prepared bag to head out to his workplace.

Kakashi walked through the store, prepared bag in hand, Icha Icha in his pocket, and sighed as he saw the repeat customer hovering by the front counter.

“No, Naruto, we still haven’t received the limited edition Gutsy Shinobi ramen cups; I told you I’ll call you if we get them.”

Kakashi never heard Naruto’s reply, because his voice was suddenly drowned out by the deep growl of engines pulling into the station, and any hope he had for an uneventful shift was dashed just as quickly as Naruto’s chance of indulging in the delicious goodness of Gutsy Shinobi ramen with the arrival of the Akatsuki Biker Gang.

The group of delinquents strolled into the store as if they owned the place, all sporting matching black leather jackets with red cloud patches on the shoulders and back--an omen that things were about to go south very quickly.

Without seeming to lift his eyes from his book, Kakashi sighed to himself as he watched them clumsily stuff candy bars and Slim Jims under their jackets... were the Akatsuki having an initiation night?

Should he bother confronting them?  The long expired Slim Jims they were about to partake in might be punishment enough.

Kakashi put on his best fake customer service smile and didn't say anything - whatever they were stealing, he wasn't paid enough to care.

He sighed. ‘Sir, if you lick the candy bars one more time it’s a week ban. Not so funny when you can’t get those stale nachos, huh?’

Just to prove his point, and maybe because he was feeling a bit exasperated by now, Kakashi carefully unwrapped a candy bar of his own and inhaled the whole thing in two seconds beneath his mask - leaving the visitor stunned, staring wide-eyed with new appreciation at the silver-haired man’s obvious authority on the subject of candy-bar licking.

"Ew," Naruto reminded Kakashi of his presence at the same time that Deidara tried to sneak a six-pack of Budweiser beneath his shirt, so he changed tack to deal with the Akatsuki Biker Gang because he wanted to keep his loyal customers.

Although, 'loyal customers' was a bit of a stretch at times; yes, they frequented the place often, but more often than not they also gave him quite the headache.

He was too tired for this shit at this hour of the day. 

Kakashi did what he was best at - feigning boredom and being unaffected by what was happening in the hope that the problem solved itself.

Kakashi pulled out his beloved Icha Icha and proceeded to hide behind the vivid orange cover as he ignored the problem happening in front of him.

The Akatsuki biker gang couldn’t be so easily ignored, as Hidan proved when he snatched the orange book from Kakashi’s hand.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Kakashi said pleasantly, his best customer service smile sharp as blades under his mask, “but that’s not for sale.”

Hidan squinted and flipped the book sideways in a gesture that made Kakashi think he had never held a book before, let alone read one, and Kakashi’s eyes flicked to the closed-circuit camera in the corner as he contemplated forgoing his service training in order to retrieve it, but stopped when he noticed the suspicious red smudges that the man’s fingertips left behind on the cover of his cherished Icha Icha.

It was too bright to be anything ominous - in fact, it matched the same shade as the cherry-flavored Slurpee they offered - but Kakashi wasn’t about to let Hidan slide on stealing a mouthful of frozen delight, or marring his favorite book, so he growled, “You owe me two dollars for the drink and a new copy of Icha-Icha.”

"Two dollars!--look, I'd pay ya, but my partner's a real Stooge [sic] with the purse strings... how 'bout I make it up to you in the stock room instead, if you know what I mean?" the gray-haired religious fetishist suggested with a waggle of eyebrows.

Kakashi considered the offer as it would lessen his shift duties and afford more time to read, however, just then his, Naruto’s, and every head belonging to the Akatsuki biker gang turned to the main entrance when the cheerful ding sounded announcing the arrival of another repeat customer, Granny Chiyo, with her fists full of scratch-off lottery tickets.

Granny Chiyo, was a legend not just for being the bad-ass take no names grandmother of one of the more dangerous Akatsuki gang members, but also for being thrifty.  She slammed the scratch off lottery tickets on the counter, and reached into her jacket and pulled out Kakashi's most dreaded item - the jar of pennies.

She placed the jar on the counter with a loud clunk before reaching inside and pulling out pennies one by one, counting them on the counter under her breath. "This will only take a moment" she assured him, "I want to be precise!"

Kakashi took in the mayhem around him with a glazed 100-meter stare.  There'd been worse nights, right? No machetes yet, right? All he needed was to make it to break time and have a smoke. 10 minutes.. Kakashi inhaled deeply and cleared his throat 'Take ALL the time you need Ma'am.'  He shouldn't get involved right? He needed to man the till, right?

Kakashi smiled at Chiyo who was determined to pay for her weird collection of knickknacks with a gajillion pennies, but couldn't help glancing at the security camera that showed an energetic teenager mid-dance battle with the local biker gang; the only thing more bizarre would be Gai showing up to join them and to be honest he wouldn't be surprised.

The universe was not about to pass over an opportunity like that; if Kakashi had learned anything in his long years, it was that the best way to handle the sudden burst of GREEN and NOISE that assaulted his senses (out of seemingly nowhere) was to remain calm and tip a casual “Yo” to his rival while keeping an eye on Chiyo, the teenager, the biker gang, and the dance battle all at once... Gai would probably join the dance battle in a few minutes anyway.

Because, hello my dear, he wasn't going to leave his dignity in pieces. Better dead than ridiculous ... Although maybe ...?

He ran a hand through his already unruly hair as he rolled his shoulders, getting ready for whatever lay ahead; a quick glance at the clock confirmed his shift still had a long ways to go.

There was no time to relax when the biker gang was already making a move on some products, thinking he wouldn’t notice.

Kakashi decided that losing his job over a bunch of tough dudes acting like broke teenagers wasn't worth it, so he strode over to them first; maybe Gai would help him if they got violent - not that Kakashi would need help with that though.

And that was when it all exploded as Gai joined the dance battle causing them to knock over a display onto the Akatsuki teenage biker gang who exploded in rage causing both the aged Chiyo and Naruto to get knocked to the ground.

Kakashi in panic rushed to Naruto almost running over the old Chiyo and got out his flute then started to bang in on poor knocked-out Naruto's head, the Akatsuki teenage biker gang all nodded as they understood that it was an extremely necessary step of Cardiopulmonary resuscitation.

Gai—either unconcerned, not noticing the damage, or convinced that anything can be solved with the power of dance—dropped to the ground in an impressive worm, once more pulling the attention of the Akatsuki members.

Instigated by the impromptu dance party, the eccentric masked Akatsuki member jumped up onto a tower of canned diet Coke and started beat boxing, and Kakashi could only watch in horror as Gai’s worm morphed into break dancing.

Kakashi sighed and rubbed his tired eyes from behind the counter as he watched Gai break dance down the snack aisle to the rhythm of the masked man's beatboxing, onlookers pumping their fists and cheering as another Akatsuki gang member started to rap about how "art is an explosion."

'What the hell,' was the thought that echoed through Kakashi's aching head with increasing volume; what the hell indeed?--and as he ripped off his red vest  and leapt to the top of the counter, the crowd, one by one, turned toward him and fell silent: the cheering onlookers, the masked beat-boxer, the pony-tailed blond... until, at last, the only sound and movement was the frenzied tricking of Gai as the spandex-clad man danced on, unaware.

As he crouched on the counter he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go through with this - but desperate times called for desperate measures.  He grabbed a Slim Jim and held it up as a mic.  There was only one song that would shut them up.

Kakashi started the song softly, but got louder with each word, one hand leading the dance as he ever so slightly got closer to the crowd and then- 3am really was the witching hour, huh? - the crowd joined his dance and with each Ey macarena they were inching a little closer towards the exit in perfect synchrony.

Just then, Naruto regained consciousness and after blinking several times at the chaotic crowd, exclaimed, “What happened to the old lady that was here?”

Kakashi dropped the Slim Jim mic at these words, and glanced where Chiyo had once stood only to find a list of her purchases and her payment-the jar of pennies-waiting to be counted. He ran a hand down his face, noticed the mess below the dripping slurpee machine, spied Deidara passed out in a corner with empty beer cans around him, Kisame and Itachi not-so-secretly pocketing sunglasses, while Hidan sang and Gai danced on with abandon.

Irritably grabbing the mop for what would not be the last time that night, Kakashi unceremoniously stepped over Naruto.

Kakashi briefly considered whether or not this job was really worth the $7.25 per hour it paid him, before surreptitiously mopping himself within a meter of Itachi and Kisame, who he surprised with a heavy “Thwack!” of the mop handle across the backs of both their legs, causing them each to drop a pair of sunglasses and clap their hands across their backsides to smooth the stinging sensation.

He laughed devilishly, enjoying the momentary respite  from the craziness of the shift and the antics of his so-called customers; was anyone actually buying anything tonight?

No matter, they didn’t need to, as long as they would get out.

But they just wouldn't get out, so Kakashi had to take more drastic measures - the fire alarm would get him into trouble with his employer, faking a power failure seemed like a safe option though, so he went over to the power box, turned off the main switch and listened with a deep satisfaction to the surprised screams and commotions in the shop.

“Lights are out,” Kakashi stated obviously, walking carefully back towards the register, “so if everybody could put any unpurchased items down and carefully head towards the still illuminated exit signs, that would be greatly appreciated.”

There was a moment of silence, followed by murmuring, and then the faint crumpling sound of what was either plastic encased items being set aside, or even more likely, being concealed in pockets.

While Kakashi knew that letting customers get away with stealing would come back to haunt him if and when his boss found out, at this rate he quite frankly couldn't even care--and besides, with all the lights off, he doubted the security cameras would pick up anything anyway.

As the subdued miscreants groped blindly to the door, illuminated only by the impassive green of the EXIT sign, Kakashi breathed a sigh of relief that his shift was finally winding down--that is, until the resounding BOOM that echoed from the front parking lot.

The screech of tires, the thundering bass, it was a sound he was only too familiar with -  it could only be one man.

Finally, finally the whole bunch was gone, only to be replaced by the loudest most obnoxious person he could think of, but Killer B was a regular and as such Kakashi had to endure his bad rapping.

Kakashi threw his head back and softly yeeted with fingers pointed skywards "Pew, pew pew! Fxxx my life!"

As the giant strode inside, clapped his hands on the countertop at the register and whooped “Yo! Bakayaro! Konoyaro! Kakashi, better watch me, can’t copy me, yeeeahhh!” the shopkeep wondered where this cheerful monster had been earlier, when so many folks were acting the fool (no doubt Killer Bee would have assisted him in wiping the floor with two or five of the previous visitors); “Bee, my man, you have no idea the kind of night I’ve been having...”

Unfortunately for Kakashi, Bee had become distracted by a motion sensor dancing sunflower, and took its song as a challenge for a mini rap battle.

"Yo, this flower's got moves! Look at it swaying while I spit some rad tunes!" Bee enthused and all Kakashi could manage in reply was a tired "You should've seen the dance battle earlier."

Lifting up his sunglasses to peer more closely at Kakashi's face--how was he able to see with those on in the middle of the night? the silveret wondered--B  yelled concernedly, "Yo man, feeling tired? Uninspired? Say no more! Let's hit the door!" and, heedless of Kakashi's terrified recoil, scooped the smaller man up under his arm and boogied them to his ride, parked across three spaces in the parking lot.

“What is the meaning of this?” The assistant shift supervisor, Danzo, showed up at the door, with Konoha’s 24/7 general manager, Hiruzen, right behind him. 

“Um—” Kakashi began, and ended because there was no explaining it. 

“You’re fi—” 

“I quit!” Kakashi shouted, silencing Danzo. 

Bee brandished a peace sign while Kakashi offered a much ruder gesture and the pair took off in search of an after party, or a nap. 

Just then, Naruto-whom everyone forgot about-stepped out from behind an endcap of ramen cups. “Does this mean you’re hiring?” 

Hiruzen smiled, “I’ll get you an application.”

The End

 Do you have an idea for a title? Add it in the replies to this post!

[tuiyla]

She-Ra’s like, really good, people

It’s been over a week since She-Ra season 5 came out and I binged it and this is not going to be coherent but I just want to rant about it a bit before writing some more structured metas. I deffo wanna write about Catradora and how I think SPoP is the true spiritual successor to the Avatar.

But first, let me just scream about how good this show is. I already started rewatching it, pretty much straight after finishing it, and I don’t rewatch tv shows often. The exception is Avatar (seen it like 15 times) and sitcoms. But She-Ra is so layered that I felt like I needed to watch it again just to appreciate the dynamics even more.

I already enjoyed the first season but it kept getting better and better. I’m not in love with the art style and it’s definitely for a younger demographic overall than my other favourite animated shows, but like any good kids’ show it balances tone well. It doesn’t talk down to its target demographic but also includes more traditionally mature themes in a digestible and entertaining way. Not all the jokes landed for me but as the series went on I learned to appreciate the tone and the type of humour She-Ra goes for.

It’s funny to me because this is definitely the type of show I would have rejected as a kid, with all the princesses I would have deemed it “too girly” and therefore not for me because screw gender roles. There’s a degree of internalized sexism to that, for sure, a rejection of the feminine because it’s always been seen as less somehow. But there’s also a truth that, at least in my childhood of the late 90s and early 00s, children’s media targeted at girls often had a poor quality to it, at least when compared to “boys’ stuff”.

She-Ra is not only a clever, heartfelt, complex story, it also transcends that binary of having to be either for girls or boys. I know most of modern animation rejects that as well, but She-Ra embraces so many traditionally feminine qualities while also going beyond gender roles and even the gender binary. This show is so queer, man, and I love it. It’s especially impressive when you consider the source material that was literally just the girly version of He-Man. I have no beef with 80s She-Ra, haven’t seen much of it, but this is such an upgrade.

That being said, I would have loved to watch She-Ra as a kid. I’m so incredibly envious of kids, aged around 10, who get to watch this show as they’re growing up. But I am so, so, so happy for them and for the future of animation that shows like She-Ra can be made now, that they’re being made. I’m going to go into spoilers soon, but just before that: She-Ra’s a perfectly enjoyable show in many aspects. I think the worldbuilding��s pretty cool, the story feels coherent and planned out, it’s lighthearted and so genuine. That’s the word that I ultimately choose to describe the series: genuine.

I feel like so much of TV aims to be dark and gritty nowadays, animation included, and though that’s slowly turning to dark comedy or a balance between fun and serious, it’s still the norm. At some point in the last decade, creators became terrified of being judged as cheesy. Even something like the MCU bathes in bathos to avoid being cheesy. But She-Ra proves that creators shouldn’t be afraid of being genuine, of basing characters and storylines on the simple power of love. Like, it’s such a cliché trope but I think that’s mostly because it has become stale.

Noelle Stevenson has talked about the importance of love in her story and I’m so grateful for that. Through, She-Ra, she’s truly proven how powerful love can be in a story and how it doesn’t have to be cheesy. It’s just so unabashedly genuine. The power of love and friendship literally saves the day several times but it’s always so genuine and more importantly it always makes sense that it doesn’t get boring. If the foundation wasn’t there, then I’d say “well this is just super cheesy”. But the show makes a point of building relationships and making them the focal point of the story.

Alright, so, spoilers because I need to talk about character arcs and THAT KISS and just everything. I really need to write more in depth about Adora and Catra and their relationship but for now I feel like it’s so important to appreciate how they’re developed. Everything from their shared childhood to their trauma with Shadow Weaver and the finding their way back to each other, it’s just *chef’s kiss*. It’s so well-written and believable. Ngl, I do have some minor issues with Catra’s redemption arc. Let’s just say that on a scale from Kylo Ren to Zuko, she’s definitely closer to Zuko. I also appreciate Shadow Weaver’s death scene and how it allows them to move on. I didn’t see that one as Death as Redemption and it shouldn’t be. Again and again the show made it clear that she was abuse towards both girls and nothing will negate that.

From what I can tell, the fandom really latched onto Catra, even when it wasn’t clear whether she’d get a redemption arc. I think that’s important, because unlike some characters in animation, Catra’s actions were almost always framed appropriately. There was always an understanding as to where she’s coming from, how she’s acting from a place of hurt, and yet her actions weren’t justified. They weren’t suddenly all okay just because she’s hurt, too. I especially loved in the season 3 finale when Adora was allowed to finally say no, to say that Catra’s actions were not her fault. That season as a whole was beautiful, like, episode three when Adora’s struggling so much and Catra has the opportunity for a better life but she still fails to choose her own happiness because she’s too bitter over SW and Adora? It’s poetic cinema. I love that angst, so well done.

It would be so easy to misfire in Catra’s storyline and either a) write off all the awful things she does because she’s just “misunderstood” or b) irredeemably stuck in her abusive environment with no hope of escape. They balanced quite well there and managed to handle such a complex character with delicacy. I’m quite happy with how Catra was portrayed because on the one hand, she’s painfully relatable to me and I assume to many others. The audience can see their own mistakes reflected in her character because we’ve all been too stubborn, done things out of spite, refused to acknowledge that we were wrong because we were hurting so much. At the same time, I always felt like the show gave me enough space to judge Catra’s actions and acknowledge that she was in the wrong. I honestly think I would have been a better adjusted teenager is if saw this show just before my angsty years, lol.

I’m going to write more about Adora at some other point but I love how vulnerable she’s allowed to be. Protagonists never used to be my favourite characters because they all seemed the same, with two major categories: the stereotypical male hero who can do no wrong or the angsty boi who can be shitty and the text still frames him as awesome. It’s only recently with series like The Legend of Korra and She-Ra that I go “damn, protagonists can be like that, huh.” Adora is a dumb jock who tries so hard and she deserves all the hugs in the world.

Also, Catradora? Breathtaking, amazing, groundbreaking. No doubt She-Ra needed shows like Adventure Time, LoK, Steven Universe and the likes to pave the way but still, it went there. I saw people be anxious about whether they were gonna be queerbaited, but I always, idk, knew? Trusted? That She-Ra would follow through. I didn’t wait six years for Bubbline to happen for Catradora to not get their big damn kiss. The series has been so effortlessly queer from the get-go that it just made sense that they were always heading there. I did see a gif of the kiss before watching s5 and ngl, that spoiler kind of bummed me out in a way that I wanted to be surprised. But even before I saw that I wasn’t worried. And the context of their journey in season 5? That cannot be spoiled by a simple gif. You have to experience that to fully appreciate it and that is the marker of good storytelling.

I understand that, though this should be the norm by now, Noelle Stevenson still had to be smart about how she approached the execs and she wasn’t sure this could happen. I cannot tell you how happy I am about what she said regarding how Catradora was so integral to the story that the execs couldn’t not allow it. That’s so brilliant, and it feels so natural in the story. Queer love saves the day and it’s not ambiguous, it cannot be censored because you lose a part of the story without it. You did it, Noelle, you funky little lesbian, what an icon. I can’t wait to see more stuff from her.

In other news, I appreciated other characters as well, like how all the princesses got to be different and awesome in their own unique way. Season 5 was great for so many characters, Mermista got so much to work with and Spinnerella and Netossa got so much more characterization than in previous seasons. Glimmer continued to be the third most important character in the story and I’m happy about all the relationships that also got to be canon. Good characters and dynamics all around, no wonder since the show is built on that.

Such a satisfying conclusion and one that makes you feel like this is just part one of a much bigger story. Such genuine, heartfelt moments, well-developed characters, complex themes explored in a respectful and digestible way, and such an unapologetically fun show. Melissa Fumero as a side character? Yes please. Catra’s new haircut? Heck yeah! She-Ra’s new design? Oh my.

I’m not even like, super into She-Ra, and I usually don’t write so much about things I only watch casually. But this show is so good and important that I had to rant. And I will write more about it eventually, but for now I needed to get all of this out. I’d give it a better structure but if I really get into I might never end up posting it so for now here, have this ramble of love. She-Ra, of all shows, deserves that.

[busterkeatonfanfic]

Chapter 23

Contrary to what he’d said while tired and sex-drunk, Buster did care about being seen with Nelly. After he’d driven her back to her apartment Monday morning and she’d hurried in to drop off her bags, then hurried back to the car, he dropped her off a few blocks from the United Artists lot. He hazarded a quick kiss on the lips, but that was it. He knew as well as anyone that to keep a mistress you had to be quiet about it, at least if your wife was as concerned about preserving the illusion of a happy marriage as Natalie was. It was a price he was willing to pay.

Now alone, he drove the half-hour to Culver City, reflecting on the weekend. It felt nice to be wild for a girl again, made him forget his troubles until the M-G-M sign loomed up ahead. His gut sank. Before he signed the contract, he’d asked for his team to be put on the payroll. The studio had granted his wish, but what he hadn’t bargained on was becoming the proud new recipient of every Tom, Dick, and Harry who wanted to make their mark in moving pictures gumming up his simple story with the goddamndest stuff: jewel heists, damsels in distress, a full military band. The days of Steamboat Bill seemed far, far away, and he longed for his old scenario department. Lately the mornings had consisted of sitting around a table with a baker’s dozen of men, including Thalberg, passing around a script that grew heavier and heavier with harebrained ideas with each passing day, like a ship sinking under the weight of too much cargo.

The image of that ship put him in mind of a gag. By the time he was inside and put in his standing order of coffee and donuts with a secretary, the gag had taken shape.

Bruckman was in the room with the big table. Buster could see that he was trying to pretend that things were as normal as they’d ever been, but he looked like he felt just as much like a fish out of water as Buster did. Some of the paid writers helloed Buster and asked him if he’d had a nice weekend. 

“Sure. Did some quail-hunting in the Valley.” He smiled to himself, remembering a naked Nelly clinging to his neck in the lake. 

Two young pretty girls came into the room with the coffee and donuts. Munching a donut, Buster wasted no time in introducing his idea to Bruckman.

“Suppose I start filming with my old camera to impress my girl, but I do it all wrong. Get into the craziest scrapes. I could be near a ship as it’s getting ready to be launched, thinking I’m about to get the shot of a lifetime, only the ship launches me with it,” he said. 

“And you darn near topple off of it and lose your camera,” said Bruckman. 

“Exactly,” Buster said. 

“I’ve just written a part where your character bumps into a dame whose son has just been kidnapped,” one of the writers, a medium-height fellow with a brown mustache, chimed in. “She’s willing to give you all the tea in China if you just help her find her Billy. You’re willing to do it. It’s your chance for a ticker-tape parade if you find him. You know, to impress your girl.”

“Kidnapped?” Buster said, not sure he’d heard right. 

“Sure. It fits perfectly.”

By now, Thalberg had entered the room and seated himself at the table. He took a donut and smiled in a benevolent way that spelled trouble. 

“No, no. It’s the mob Buster comes up against. They think he’s a spy and take him for a hostage, but he’s more useful as a stooge, see?”

Buster found himself wishing he’d poured a little whiskey into his coffee when no one was looking. It was bad enough to have to put everything down on a script for the first time in his career in pictures and even worse to entertain this kind of dreck. He looked over to Bruckman, but he just gave him a helpless look. At this rate, they’d never get around to filming. 

Filming. His mind crowded with everything he was obliged to do in the next six weeks, premieres (including Steamboat’s), parties, benefits, and not least of all traveling to New York City to begin filming. He thought sinkingly of Nelly. 

The worries continued on the drive back home late that afternoon. He worried his nails with his teeth as he thought about juggling it all.  At the Villa, he parked in the drive and bustled his way through the magnificent mahogany doors with his suitcases. Before departing from the studio, he’d checked the car for any trace of Nelly, a stray stocking, a dropped bracket, but there was nothing to give him away. As he stepped into the foyer, he was struck with an unfamiliarity that sometimes came over him. This big, clean, airy house, so cold and charmless—was it really his? He’d obsessed over it endlessly when it was being constructed, sparing no detail, never sure of what possessed him beyond the thrill that he could and a desire to impress. Impress his fellow stars? He thought, setting his suitcases down and running a hand across the back of his neck. No. 

To impress Natalie. 

He called for her. “Hello?” There was no answer and he tried again. “Hello?”

“Hello?” But it was only Eleanor, coming around the corner looking worried. “Mr. K—Buster, how are you? Shall I take your suitcases?” It had taken a while, but he’d finally gotten her to stop calling him Mr. Keaton. 

“No, I’ll take care of that. Have you seen Natalie? Is she around?”

“She’s out I’m afraid,” Eleanor said, with an apologetic smile. 

He could hear the kids outside somewhere, giggling and screaming. “Alright. If you see her, just tell her I’m home.”

He took his suitcases up to his room. It was cool and dark, and managed to smell both stale and clean at the same time. The bed was made, all the corners of the sheets tightly tucked. He drew his curtains and opened the balcony doors. 

“Hey, you hooligans!” he cried down to Bobby and Jimmy, who were running around on the lawn under Connie’s watchful eye. 

“Daddy!” they said, racing to the balcony. 

He went down to them and allowed them to wrestle him to the ground where they swarmed on top of him, then demanded to be swung around by the arms in the dangerous way that Nate disapproved of. A little voice in the back of his head lectured him about his failures as a father and husband, but he let the feeling of his sons’ hands in his smother it. Nelly was distracted for her entire shift Monday, remembering moments from the weekend. The assistant prop manager had to remind her to get her head out of the clouds when she fetched the wrong dinner service twice in a row. She could scarcely wait to get home, where the phone would surely ring and Buster would be on the other line asking her how her day had been. He had promised to be in touch when he’d dropped her off a block before the studio. That night, however, she went to bed disappointed. A worming doubt began to spoil her recollections of their time at the cabin. 

The phone did ring after work the next day, but it wasn’t Buster. 

“Nelly, is that you?” her mother said on the other end. Barely waiting for an assurance, she cried, “Ruthie had the baby! It’s a girl and they haven’t named her yet, but they think Violet or Virginia, which do you like better? Virginia? I like Virginia myself. She’s seven pounds even. We think she might have brown hair instead of blonde; it’s rather dark if you ask me, but of course there’s not much of it.”

“Well that’s wonderful,” said Nelly, wondering why her heart wasn’t in the congratulations. “How’s she doing? How’s Ruthie?” She’d never been able to fathom the birth process, the pushing and tearing and bleeding and all the rest. With what mothers had to go through, it was a miracle anyone ever had a second child, let alone a third like Ruthie.

“Oh, she’s tired but she’s an old hand by now. It wasn’t an hour later she wanted some chicken broth and now she’s bullied Gerald into letting her have some ice cream. Lord knows where he found it this time of year but nothing’s too good for her where he’s concerned.”

“And June and Eddie?”

“Eddie wanted a brother and declares he won’t see the poor soul, but you can imagine June is over the moon. She’s brought up her dollies’ clothes for her. Thank goodness they’re too small or we’d be in for quite a fight.”

As Nelly stood in the hall with the receiver to her ear, her mother chattered on about what time Ruthie’s labor started, how it had progressed, and what the doctor had done when he’d gotten there. She plotted with some guilt about how to cut the conversation short; she was worried she’d miss Buster if he called. 

“And you, how are you, dear?” her mother said, as if sensing Nelly’s intentions.

“Oh, I’m okay,” she said, a bit hastily. 

“How are you getting on with the moving pictures?”

Nelly explained briefly about her role in Tempest, which she’d mentioned in her last letter home. 

“What about that Keaton film? When will that come out? Your father says he intends to take the whole family to see it.”

“Buster—Mr. Keaton’s cutting it right now. April, I suspect.”

Not noticing her daughter’s slip, her mother pressed on. “When can we expect you back home?”

“I’m awful busy. Autumn?”

That was not good enough for Lena. “What’s wrong with summer? Or late spring? We miss you terribly and you know Harold Jenkins is wondering how you’ve been. I’ve given him your address so he can write. Have you gotten any letters yet?”

Nelly gritted her teeth unconsciously at the mention of Halitosis Harold. “Not yet. But Mother, I really have to be going.” She racked her brain for an excuse. “I’m having dinner tonight with a fellow I work with.” It was the wrong thing to say, because Lena became gleeful and effusive. “Oh Nelly, you didn’t mention you were seeing someone. What’s his name? Is he handsome?”

Nelly flushed. “It’s Joseph,” she said, thinking of Buster’s given name. “He’s very handsome, but he’ll be here any minute. I really must go.”

“I’ll call tomorrow, perhaps. I want you to tell me all about your new beau and I presume the baby will have a name by then.”

“That’s fine, Mother. I love you. I’ve got to go.” With a few more I-love-yous and talk-to-you-soons, Nelly was able to hang up the phone. The conversation had left her feeling unsettled and wrung-out. She supposed she should pick up a congratulations card for Ruthie on her lunch break tomorrow. Waiting for Buster to call, she was too nervous to eat anything more than an apple. She tried to read another chapter of Mistress Nell Gwyn, but couldn’t concentrate. Her mind was lying under the stars with Buster as he strummed his ukulele. 

It was a severe blow when another night passed with no word from him. The doubts were full-blown now. Her biggest worry wasn’t that he was preoccupied with his wife or even another girl, but that their time together hadn’t meant what she thought it had and that she had handed him her heart when she should have kept it more carefully guarded, only giving it to him when they had been going together longer and he had proven his worth. 

She went to work on Wednesday morning feeling blue despite the shining sun. The sensible part of her tried to push her out of her gloominess, reminding her that it had only been forty-eight hours and Buster was liable to be busy with his work, but nevertheless she moped around the prop department, not even caring to put on the radio for a diversion. On her lunch break she walked to a corner shop, having no appetite anyway, and chose a simple card to congratulate her sister. It had a Kewpie on the front clutching a telephone and read: I heard your home is honored / By a tiny little guest / I am rejoicing with you / That you are so greatly blest. As she walked back to the studio, she tried to get her head around the fact that she was an aunt three times over now. 

She returned to the prop warehouse around half past noon. Immediately she noticed a large vase sitting on the desk where she did the books. It was heaped with a snowy mountain of gardenias, jasmine, and myrtle. She could smell the flowers from a yard away. Propped against the vase was a record in a paper sleeve, which she examined. There was a cartoon of Paul Whiteman’s fat, mustachioed face on the front of the record and on each side a different song, “ ‘Taint So, Honey, ‘Taint So” and “That’s My Weakness Now.” A small card with her name on it was tucked into the flowers. She looked around the room for a sign of who might have delivered it, but no one was in sight. Her heart beating faster, she opened the card.

She’s got eyes of blue, I never cared for eyes of blue but she’s got eyes of blue and that’s my weakness now. 

BK 

P.S. See you tomorrow around 6?

“Got a beau now, huh?” said Gracie, one of the other girls who helped out in the department, walking into the room. Bold as brass, she leaned over Nelly’s shoulder to read the card. “Who’s BK?”

“Buddy King,” Nelly said, without a moment’s hesitation, blushing. “Did you see who delivered it?”

“I did,” said Gracie, rolling her eyes. “Florist dropped it off up front and I was the lucky gal told to bring it on back. Thought it was for me at first. ‘Course that would have been a shock. Bennie don’t do flowers or nothing like that. You’re lucky.”

“I am,” said Nelly, burying her face in the flowers. A waft of spring filled her sense and along with it a feeling that was very close to intoxication.

She was the center of attention during her walk to the tram and then her tram ride home, holding as she was such a huge arrangement of flowers. The commonest remark from strangers was, “Someone must care for you very much.”

And her face reddening, she would respond, “I guess he does.”

Note: Remember, Buster Keaton really did have a maid named Eleanor at the Villa. Confusing, but she wasn’t his Eleanor.

Also, after listening to this song since November, I finally have an excuse to share it with you! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WAfVQpzQB3g

[the-last-cuddlebender]

Dip in the Bed

When Aang was away, Katara didn’t touch his side of the bed.

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A/N: Just a lil feels-y reminder that the F in Friday stands for ✨ Fluff ✨ , that the sweeties must always sweet, and that Aang is a ~little shit~

Words: 1,197

Rating: G (H for Hugs)

ArchiveOfOurOwn

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When Aang was away, Katara didn’t touch his side of the bed.

She left it just as it was the last morning he was there—the two pillows squished up against the headboard, the dip in the sheets where he splayed his arm, the curl of blankets like a small nest from where he wrapped his other arm under her shoulders and tugged her closer to him during the night. His heat lingered like the warmth of whitening ashes. His scent lingered like a season just passing and refusing to go.

The first morning alone was the hardest. Aang’s laugh was stale in the air. The small pool of tea at the bottom of his favorite mug was cold. Katara turned every corner and was slammed into a wall when he wasn't there to greet her or jump around to scare her. 

After a normal day, they waited up for each other. Aang usually paced in figure-eights with steps so light and fast that he glided over the ground. He always waited outside for her—out in the open air like his bright robes might lure her from across the city and into his arms. Katara always waited inside for him—to make herself the first thing he saw so he knew when he was home.

The first night alone was the hardest. Katara stayed up for a bit, just out of habit. She made herself some tea—not too strong as to fill the temple with its scent and wash away the trail he left behind—and sat in the kitchen. Aang’s favorite mug kept her company. She stayed until her heart stopped waiting for him to come around the corner, and she left when it found closure in the buzzy silence of being alone.

Ever since she first met him, they had always been sleeping together. Their family dogpiled with Appa during the war. They kept the tradition even after. They made sure to stay at least in twos since the nightmares were unbearable if they slept alone without someone who shared them. 

Katara kept the window open. She folded her favorite robe of his—it was hers, and she would fight him for it...it smelled the most like him—and placed it by the fire. The fabric was warm under her fingers and bloomed heat into her chest like a puff of poison. The sheets barely moved when she slid into bed. The moon was bright and kept her company. Aang’s robe was warm and familiar against her chest.

She held it tighter and hid her face in the thick weave. 

It smelled like him.

It didn't have a heartbeat.

Katara curled up like a dying flower. She didn't try to sleep. Sleep required peace.  

Katara hugged herself. The moon didn’t speak softly to her or tell her she wasn’t alone. 

The warmth from his robe sapped into her and grew cold like a fading last hope.

Katara didn’t cry. Not anymore. 

She didn’t feel sad. She didn’t...She didn’t feel. 

The space in her heart was empty.

Just like the dip in the bed.

…

The world was warm and smelled like all things fresh and free when Katara woke up on the fourth day. The wind from the open window was lazy currents from an even lazier ocean just beyond. Rain and ozone told of a storm. Katara buried her face in Aang’s robe—her robe—and tried to ignore it. She tried to focus on the warmth instead.

The warmth.

Katara recognized the dip of weight in the mattress, urging her toward him like she was rolling down an incline, before his laugh woke her up to a dream.

Aang’s smile was as bright as his eyes were gentle. They were half-lidded, too. His whole posture was a broken coil pretending to still be a spring, but that didn’t stop him from trying. He laid on his side and rested his face on one fist, eclipsing her in his shadow. He studied her like she was a painting he was seeing for the first time—like he was just now finding every hidden meaning buried behind each brushstroke.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” Aang said, like he always did. His voice was warmer than his robe had been when it came off the fire. 

Katara stared for longer than she liked. Every part of her wanted to move. She couldn’t. Maybe all of this was a dream. Aang said he would be gone for a week at the least. It had been only a few days. He had to fly all the—

Aang touched her cheek and hummed their song. And though only his thumb brushed under her eye, the whole of her felt like it was hugged.

He was home early.

That bastard.

The armor Katara layered around her heart was slow to peel off. She was expecting a week—he told her a week so she prepared for a week—

“Before you ask, no, you’re not dreaming.” Aang’s kiss was a laugh, and his even bigger smile was an invitation to dance. “Though I’m sure I’m in your dreams just as much as not.”

Katara glared at him for all she was worth. She glared at him even as she hugged his robe tighter and fought to keep her eyes dry and her lip from shaking. She glared at him even as he slipped his arm into the untouched curl of blankets and under her shoulders to tug her closer to him like she was his wayward teddybear.

Katara hesitated—Spirits, she hesitated—before releasing his sorry excuse for a replacement and fisting handfuls of his robes. 

She shook. He had a heartbeat.

Aang spoke softly and rubbed her back until all of her hurts were covered in a salve of promises he would never break and ‘I love you’s that he would repeat until time was lost and ran out.

“You’re home,” she said. 

Aang kissed her hair. “You’re home.”

He said it like a beautiful truth. 

The first day together was the best. Katara kept his mug full, even if he just sipped it, so that it never grew cold. Aang stuck to her like a second shadow—gently brushing his shoulder to hers like he was sneaking glances across a meeting table. He kept doing it until she stopped checking behind her whenever she turned a corner to make sure he was still there.

By that point, Aang was holding Katara’s hand in one of his and the dip of her waist in the other, and the buzz of silence became the muted patting of feet in figure-eights. The dance he led her in was so light and fast that Katara’s feet glided over the ground. Their laughs revived the air. Their kisses were smiles. The little space Aang allowed between them radiated his warmth like Katara was standing just close enough to the fire. 

The first night together was the best. They slept outside under the moonpeach trees and dogpiled with Appa like they did in the war. 

The nightmares were a memory, and they grew fainter and fainter, like wrinkles smoothed out of the bed.

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That’s one more WIP off the list lmao

(This was almost a sad fic (if you couldn’t tell from the first half with Katara) but it’s not Tearbending Tuesday and the F in Friday stands for fluff. Plus, I haven’t written littleshit!Aang in a while and needed an excuse:D)

[ottogatto]

Severus Snape in HP 1 - Full Commentary

Hello folks, here are most of what I commented about Snape. Sometimes it’s just a personal thought, a little anecdote, sometimes it deals about the problematics the character of Snape rises. Don’t worry though, key comments on his character will have their own separate post. I won’t quote everytime he gets mentioned, and sometimes I’ll quote passages where he’s not mentioned but he makes me think of him.

The model is like this: The points starts with a quote from the book - certain words will be put in bold - and the quote is followed with commentary. It follows chronological order. Every time a new commentary appears, the next quote will have its own bullet; and if there’s no commentary or if the transcript isn’t cut, the text will be warped. I tried to use bigger quotes in case we need to understand the context in which the quote is used, but because I don’t want my file to be too heavy, I won’t use introduction to the scene. Sorry, I’m not really here to explain what happened in HP1, though I will precise the chapters involved.

Comments are in parenthesis and I haven’t used the “” for the dialogue, but please don’t judge, it’s really tiring and I wanted to spend my energy on commenting rather than perfecting the transcripts.

As usual I don’t see much problems with what I’ve written now but when I’ll post I might modify things so... don’t judge too hard in the beginning. Maybe I’ll perfect the commentary? If I can, I’ll use a link for the PDF version of what I’ve written, I just need to know where I can publish the PDF...

Beware, it is very very long. I have completed 16 pages (12k words). So take a seat and... well, I hope you’ll enjoy. 

Chp 1 - The Boy Who Lived

·          Albus Dumbledore didn’t seem  to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was  unwelcome. (There are lots of passages like these that make me think of Snape  and that can hint to what his life as a child could have been. For instance,  his name is Severus and could have aroused mockery.)

Chp 2 – The Vanishing  Glass

Chp 3 – The Letters  from No One

·          They stuff people’s heads  down the toilet first day at Stonewall.

·          Smetling boys […] also  carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers  weren’t looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life.

·          Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the  outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Harry shared a room with twin beds  and damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored but Harry stayed awake, sitting  on the window-sill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and  wondering...

They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned  tomatoes on toast for breakfast next day. They had just finished  when the owner of the hotel came over to their table.

‘‘Scuse me, but is one of you Mr H. Potter?  Only I got about an ‘undred of these at the front desk.’

She held up a letter so they could read the  green ink address:

Mr H. Potter, Room 17, Railview Hotel,  Cokeworth.

Harry made a grab for the letter but Uncle  Vernon knocked his hand out of the way. The woman stared.

‘I’ll take them,’ said Uncle Vernon, standing  up quickly and following her for the dining room. (See my post about the Durlseys: Snape and Lily lived in Cokeworth.)

Chp 4 – The Keeper of  Keys

·          This wizard, about twenty years ago now, started lookin’ fer followers. Got ‘em too – some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o’ his power,  ‘cause he was gettin’ himself power, all right. Dark days, Harry. Didn’t know  who ter trust, didn’t dare get friendly with strange wizards or witches…  Terrible things happened. He was  takin’ over. (I guess that’s where the idea that Snape joined then  defected the winning side come from.)

·          Now, yer mum an’ dad were as  good a witch an’ wizard as I ever knew. Head  Boy an’ Girl at Hogwarts in their days! Suppose the myst’ry is why You-Know-Who never tried to get them on  his side before… probably knew they  were too close ter Dumbledore ter want anythin’ to do with the Dark Side.  Maybe he thought he could persuade  ‘em… maybe he just wanted ‘em outta  the way. (Several ideas here. First, as I take care to precise to people,  James somehow became Head Boy despite his bullying attitude and past illegal  activities, and this interest in him can be explained by how close his family  was to Dumbledore. Second, Hagrid says that it was common for Voldemort to  try and have people join him. Why is it a mystery though that he didn’t try that  with a widely known anti-Voldemort/anti-Slytherin Potter and a Muggle-Born?  Could Voldemort hire Muggle-Borns? Third, here Hagrid says that Voldemort  came for the family, the parents, that Harry himself. Later it will be  deduced that he came for Harry first… although the prospect of defeating  those who defied him thrice would be tempting on its own. Does this mean  though that if they hadn’t been close enough to Dumbledore, Voldemort would  have asked them sooner if they wanted to join him, while Severus was there?  What did Snape think about this, if he came to learn that?)

·          Knew yer mum an’ dad, an’ nicer people you couldn’t find.  (Hagrid idealizes Harry’s parents. After all, it’s hard to speak of the dead.  It is sad that the books don’t end with the idea that parents, or the family,  don’t need to be perfect. However, I’m still surprised Hagrid wouldn’t come  to say “Nicer people you couldn’t find” when he’d been a gamekeeper during  Snape’s scholarity.)

Chp 5 – Diagon Alley

·          Harry suddenly realized that  the tape measure, which was measuring between  his nostrils, was doing this on its own. (OOooooooo Snape)

Chp 6 – The Journey  from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters

Chp 7 – The Sorting  Hat

·          Professor Quirell, in his  absurd turban, was talking to a teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked  nose and sallow skin. (First  description. Snape is already coded Jewish/Semite. In fact I would argue that  Snape incarnated the male version of the cliché ugly witches brewing potions,  with their absurd big noses, wicked smiles, black hair, weird skin, crooked  teeth and ugliness. Just look at images of wicked witches on Google. (I have images on my Word file but I can’t post them here, oopsie)

God this is  cruel. To think that Snape did fly on a broom, and that Boggart Snape is  forced into ridiculous women clothing… Meanwhile you have the cliché of the  sexy witches, ie Lily and Ginny (just look on the Internet).

(There’s an image of a red-haired witch on a broom with a cat: The Potters  had a cat, I think it came from Lily.)

I think that  before they would demonize red-haired because of their association with  witches in England. Even now we hear things like “red-haired have no soul”,  “they smell”, etc. But am I the only one finding this weird? Hasn’t Rowling  used and mixed clichés of wizards and witches?

·          Harry watched Snape for a  while but Snape didn’t look at him  again. (There are lots of passages where Harry stare at him but Snape  quits looking back, like at the end of GoF or the first Defence class of HBP.)

·          Perhaps Harry had eaten a bit  too much, because he had a very strange dream. He was wearing Professor  Quirell’s turban, which kept talking to him, telling him he must transfer to  Slytherin at once, because it was his  destiny. Harry told the turban he didn’t want to be in Slytherin; it got  heavier and heavier; he tried to pull it off but it tightened painfully – and  there was Malfoy, laughing at him as he struggles with it – then Malfoy turned into the hook-nosed  teacher, Snape, whose laugh became high and cold – there was a burst of  green light and Harry woke, sweating and shaking. (What does this dream even  mean? Why is Harry having this dream though? Is it a way to make the reader  suspect that Malfoy and Snape are bad people? To implent the idea that Snape  will try to kill Harry?)

Chp 8 – The Potions  Master

·          The Potions lesson turned out  to be the worst thing that had happened to him so far.

Snape, like Flitwick, started the class by  taking the register, and like Flitwick,  he paused at Harry’s name.

His eyes were  black like Hagrid’s, but they had  none of Hagrid’s warmth. They were cold and empty and made you think  of dark tunnels. (I love this metaphor. But the idea that his eyes were  empty is… interesting. Often eyes are said to be empty when someone doesn’t  feel anything anymore, often because of trauma; later we will learn that  Snape can indeed use Occlumency to empty his mind. Empty eyes can also refer  to how he is apathetic, which suits him well. All in all, eyes described as  empty in a work make me think that the person has suffered a lot, or that  they are born a little… uncommon. They are, also with bad-grooming, symbols  of depression and suicide. Have an example of what I imagine:Please check Anime Empty/Blank Eyes on Google)

·          Like Professor McGonagall, Snape had  the gift of keeping a class silent without effort. (A lot of comparisons with  other teachers/adults… Maybe he learned from them? Anyway, if he does things  like McGonagall and Flitwick, then it’s no wonder to think his teaching  habits were in the norm.)

·          A bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach. (Lorrie Kim says that it’s a way to draw attention and make the  students want to prove they’re not a dunderhead, in other words, make them  interested in Potions. And it works on Hermione)

·          Potter! Said Snape suddenly. (It’s  sudden and contrasts with his previous speech… no ‘Mr’ Potter.)

·          Snape’s lips curled into a  sneer. Tut, tut – fame clearly isn’t everything. (I  think he clicks his tongue behind his teeth to make that sound. Why does he  need to belittle Harry though? Because of his spying role? Because he thinks  Harry thrives in popularity, as he’ll tell Dumbledore later: “delighted to find  himself famous”, thus proving he’s delusional? Or just out of spite?)

·          Thought you wouldn’t open a book before coming, eh, Potter? (But he did, Snape. He did.)

·          Harry forced himself to keep looking straight into those cold  eyes. (He does this several times in the series)

·          He had looked through his  books at the Dursleys’, but did Snape expect him to remember everything in One  Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi? (Why is Harry thinking about how he  didn’t learn One Thousand Magical Herbs  and Fungi, instead of Magical  Drafts and Potions? Isn’t that a tactic from the narrator to empathize on  how impossible to learn “one thousand” things in one month and how what Snape  is asking is impossible, thus unfair? Isn’t it a bit cheap? Is it allowed and  required in Hogwarts that students read their books in preparation for the  following year? I don’t think so, but I know it was done in ancient schools.  Anyway… those questions are pretty obviously asked to call Harry stupid.)

·          At this, Hermione stood up, her hand stretching towards  the dungeon ceiling. (Hermione can’t control herself. Imagine standing up just to answer a question.  The fuck?)

·          I don’t know, said Harry  quietly. I think Hermione does, though, why don’t you try her?

A few people laughed;  Harry caught Seamus’ eye and Seamus  winked. Snape, however, was not pleased. (In HBP Seamus is also glad that  Harry cheeks Snape. Snape’s plan to humiliate Harry backfired. But hey, you  can only blame yourself.)

·          And a point will be taken from Gryffindor house for your cheek,  Potter. (You provoked him, sweetie, and you had no right technically. Notice  how it’s only one point. What hurts  is not the amount of points retrieved but what it means: Snape has  antagonized Harry from the first lesson, and he’s very capable of finding  reasons to punish him if he wants. I wonder what would have happened if Harry  hadn’t cheeked him back?)

·          Things didn’t improve for the Gryffindors as the Potions  lesson continued. (Harry isn’t the whole Gryff house, but since the  punishments by points are meant to be collective, it affects the house… However  I think it’s also a sign of how the narrator is quick to say Snape is unfair  to Gryffindors in general, from Harry’s point of view, and not ‘just’ Harry.)

·          Snape put them all into pairs and set them to mixing up a simple potion to cure boils. (Boils  from touching a cauldron… boils from Furnunculus, or fires in the chimneys…  Also Snape puts first years into pairs. In third year I think he starts to  separate them. I’m not sure.)

·          He swept around in his long  black cloak, watching them weigh dried  nettles and crush snake fangs, criticizing  almost everyone except Malfoy, whom he seemed to like. (1) Snape’s first  class uses dried nettles and Snape’s riddle involves nettle wine because he’s  a character inspired from John Nettleship. Snape’s totem plant is a nettle –  and alright, asphodel, wormwood and aconite. 2) I think there too, the  narrator is quick on antagonizing Snape. The text implies that he does  criticize his Slytherins as well – although it’s not explicitly said – and  just not Malfoy. Does Draco already have a talent/knowledge in Potions that’d  justify the lack of criticism other than being favouritism? Maybe that’s  because he does succeed really well. Malfoy had broom lessons, surely he had  Potions ones as well, from Snape or someone else. The difference here? The  book won’t say that complimenting Hermione the most is bordering on favouritism,  because you know, “she deserves it” – although she also was introduced as “a nightmare” – but will precise that when  Snape compliments Draco, he seemed to  like him and, in our minds, it draws the conclusion it’s for this reason  alone that he’s congratulating him. In other words, the text wants us to believe  that Draco doesn’t deserve  compliments. What we know however is that the book tends to judge characters  based on how they’re presented to Harry rather than from an objective point  of view – for instance, Hagrid “punishes” Dudley and we are supposed to find  it fair as he was a bully, when an objective point of view will show that  since Hagrid couldn’t know Dudley was a bully but could just assume that a “fat  Muggle” was to be insulted – Dudley didn’t try to eat the cake in the books –  what he did in attacking Duldley and trying to turn him into a pig is  actually a horrible scene (see critic about Hagrid); McGonagall only  retrieves 5 points from Hermione, and we suppose it’s fair because she didn’t  actually try to beat the troll, but when we consider that McGonagall punished  her with 50 points for being out of curfew out-of-bounds later, we can  conclude that McGonagall punishes near-suicide and disobedience 10 times less  than a nighttime stroll – meaning she’s inconsistent/illogical in her  punishments. Here, Draco is introduced as a bully and undeserving of love or  compliments because of that… except  that objectively, if he does his potion well, then he has the right to be  complimented without it being implied to be favouritism. 3) The text also  implies Snape criticized Hermione, but is it really unjustified? We don’t  know. Hermione has been proven to have difficulties with a practical use of  magic – riding a broomstick, repelling the Devil’s Snare, defeating her  Boggart – maybe at first she had difficulties in brewing Potions. That’s not  something she could have learned at home or in books. It’d be logical she  learned how to brew better throughout the months. 4) Hermione is complimented  by her teachers too – in HP1 alone we have McGonagall twice and Flitwick  doing just that before Harry and Ron become friends with her – the difference  is that Snape will compliment others  than the best of the class. Though is that such a bad thing in itself? I  remember that good teachers were those who didn’t focus on the gifted only. 5) And you know what it makes me think of? There’s an essay about John Nettleship that explains he could be mistakenly perceived as favouring the gifted because he was passionate in his job and had the tendency to show appreciation to those showing real involvement. Meanwhile, JK Rowling didn’t participate much – she hated Chemistry, she didn’t seem to succeed, thus why she chose a Potions Master to be the bad teacher. We have two elements. First Netlleship was said to try and make participate people with difficulties, like Rowling, but because she often “didn’t know” the answer, she might have felt pressured or ridiculed purposefully by her teacher – in the books, Harry is asked questions he can’t possibly answer, since he “can’t remember everything”, and Neville gets pressured. At the same time, Hermione, Rowling’s self-insert, is said to try and participate but getting ignored by Snape, who prefers to compliment other people. Maybe this is an aspect of how Rowling perceived favouritism in Nettleship? )

·          He was just telling everyone  to look at the perfect way Malfoy  had stewed his horned slugs. (Jealous much, Harry? McGonagall had just done  the same for Hermione’s needle! In third year she’ll compare Hermione to  Seamus to prove he’d better take an example on her. I don’t remember the  quote well, but I do know that comparing students like that is not that  healthy…)

·          When clouds of acid green  smoke and a loud hissing gilled the dungeon. Neville had somehow managed to  melt Seamus’ cauldron into a twisted blob and their potion was seeping across  the stone floor, burning holes in  people’s shoes. Within seconds, the whole class were standing on their  stools while Neville, who had been drenched in the potion when the cauldron  collapsed, moaned in pain as angry red  boils sprang up all over his arms and legs.

Idiot boy!  Snarled Snape, clearing the spilled potion away with one wave of his wand. I  suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the  fire? (When Snape is stressed he gets angry.)

Neville whimpered as boils started to pop up all over his nose.

Take him up  to the hospital wing, Snape spat at Seamus.  (Contrary to Hooch, Snape takes care to ask for the other member of the pair,  aka a student, to bring Neville to the hospital. Thus Snape won’t leave his  class in a room full of potions that can explode and cauldrons that can burn.  However… why didn’t you have a cure for boils to help Neville if you are  specifically in a class where students can burn themselves because of the  potions, the fire and the cauldrons? There are lots of problems in a school  such as Hogwarts, especially concerning Potions courses from what I’ve seen  in HP1, but even that should have been accessible to you.)

·          I’ve heard Snape can turn  very nasty. (A precision. Snape isn’t ‘always nasty’. He can turn nasty if we go too far.)

·          Snape’s always taking points  off Fred and George. (Not  surprising though, they keep doing pranks and breaking rules.)

·          Snape hasn’t taken any points  from students other than the two from Harry. Is that what we call an  unforgiving absolute bully? If he had been, he’d have retrieved more than 2  points and would have bullied other Gryffindors. He hasn’t.

·          Hagrid, like Ron, told Harry not  to worry about it, that Snape  liked hardly any of the students. (We have two elements. 1) People  reassure Harry in saying that what Snape does is not to worry about; they  don’t see the problem right away. Hagrid,  the adult Harry trusts the most for now, is the first to quite dismiss  Harry’s concerns, and not do something about it; maybe it broke Harry’s  belief that adults would speak with Snape so he wouldn’t do that. People  close to Harry downplay this behavior… which is something that can be done  casually in school, and if it can help some people, it can also send the  message that the teacher will be defended/excused for their bullying. 2) They  do compare Harry with other students, but Harry isn’t a student like any  other. So there are two possibilities: either Snape doesn’t treat Harry  differently than others, despite his genuine hate against him, and thus  implies that what he does against Harry actually isn’t caused by hate, which  would be a little surprising considering how the book present things, but  which corresponds to how Snape will say to the Minister that he tries to  treat all of his students fairly, including Harry – interestingly we can  imagine that Fudge is right when he says that everybody has a soft spot for  Harry, which is shown regularly in the books, meaning Harry can get used to  special treatment, and by consequence, when Snape does something right but  that doesn’t please Harry because he expected favouritism even unconsciously,  Snape will be called unfair unfairly; or  Snape does treat Harry differently and this implies that he treats other  students in a kinder manner, despite “hardly liking” any of them, which would  be logical and good but a little weird as Snape is described as generally  being in a bad mood.)

·          But he seemed to really hate me.

Rubbish! Said Hagrid. Why should he?

Yet Harry couldn’t help thinking that Hagrid didn’t quite meet his eyes when he  said that.

Harry wondered if Hagrid had changed the subject on purpose. (Acceptation  of Snape’s behaviour? Either way Hagrid is the one that quite says Harry is  mistaken/lies about how wrong what Snape did was. And did Hagrid know  something about Snape that he didn’t want to tell Harry? For instance, does  he know that Snape was badly treated by the Marauders? Does he think that  Snape kind of “deserves” to have his way, or that it’s understandable and he  draws the conclusion that it’s excusable? It’s Hagrid, folks.)

·          Had Hagrid collected that  package just in time? Where was it now? And  did Hagrid know something about Snape that he didn’t want to tell Harry?  (Suspicion about the Stone starts from there.)

Chp 9

·          You’re a lot braver now you’re back on the ground  and you’ve got your little friends  with you, said Harry coolly. (And doesn’t that remind us of some  particular gang? Harry has common points with Snape: “[Coward?] Your father  would never attack me unless it was four-on-one, what would you call that, I  wonder?”)

Chp 10 – The Midnight  Duel

·          Oh, well done! Cried Professor Flitwick,  clapping. Everyone see here, Miss  Granger’s done it! (Same thing than McGonagall, but when Snape  congratulates Malfoy it’s favouritism you know)

·          Perhaps it was because he was now so busy, what with Quidditch  practice three evenings a week on top of all his homework, but Harry could hardly believe it when he  realised that he’d already been at Hogwarts two months. (So that’s where  I start to draw a theory: Harry has spent two months in Hogwarts and it seems  quick. Usually it happens when you spend a really good time. But if Snape  really was unbearable, why don’t we hear anything else than what happened in  the first lesson? Why isn’t he said to have done something meanwhile,  although he probably heard, like Flitwick, that Harry has been given special  treatment with being allowed to play Quidditch as a first-year and being  given the best broom of the time? My theory is that Snape… remained cool. For  that, I have listed all the times Harry is punished by Snape or feels he gets  bullied, along with the context. You’ll see something interesting in the end.)

·          A moment later, Professor  McGonagall had come bursting into the room, closely followed by Snape, with Quirell bringing up the rear.  (BROTP)

·          Snape bent over the troll. Professor McGonagall was looking at Ron and  Harry. Harry had never seen her looks so angry. Her lips were white.

“What on earth were you thinking of?” said  Professor McGonagall, with a cold fury  in her voice. Harry looked at Ron, who was stills tanding with his wand in  the air. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed. Why aren’t you in your dormitory?” (McGonagall shares the same  traits as Snape when she’s angry: lips become white, her fury is cold. They  are that similar.)

·          Snape gave Harry a swift, piercing  look. Harry looked at the floor. He wished Ron would put his  wand down. (Interesting. Snape doesn’t pay attention to Harry until he  hears that he wasn’t in his dormitory, which prompt Snape to give Harry a  piercing look, which can be seen as attempt in Legilimency, or a move of  anger at knowing that Harry/James’ son already proves not to follow rules and  to leave the dormitory when he feels like it. The difference in this scene…  is that it’s McGonagall who makes the accusation. Harry does seem to feel  guilty and ashamed. Later, when Snape accuses Harry of the same things, like  going to Hogsmeade illegally in PoA, Harry won’t listen, won’t admit anything  and will become angry against Snape. Let’s list what Harry has done wrong  during all those years though, shall we? How he’s punished, by whom, what’s  his reaction.)

·          I went looking for the troll because I – I thought I could deal with  it on my own – you know, because I’ve read all about them.

·          It was as if Snape had  started handing out sweets. (Funny  image. However I suspect something else. Snape has seen Hermione outright  standing up to answer to his question, and now he might believe that Hermione  was so arrogant she felt like fighting the troll on her own. Will this  explain their animosity, if there is a big one?)

Chp 11 – Hallowe’en

·          They were standing with their backs to [the bluebell fire lamp], getting warm, when Snape crossed the  yard. Harry noticed at once that Snape was limping. Harry, Ron and Hermione  moved closer together to block the fire from view; they were sure it wouldn’t be allowed. (Why? Also best way to  attract attention.)

·          Unfortunately, something about  their guilty faces caught Snape’s eye. He limped over. He hadn’t seen the  fire, but he seemed to be looking for  a reason to tell them off anyway. (The Trio looks guilty, so Snape comes  to see what they surely did wrong. But just after the narrative says that  Snape will be looking for “a” reason to tell them off “anyway” – in short,  Snape is looking for an excuse to punish them. The switching between the Trio  thinking they did wrong and Snape looking what they do, and Snape  purposefully looking for a reason to punish them, is instantaneous and barely  visible. What is the strongest idea you will retain however? “Looking for a  reason to tell them off anyway.” You barely have Snape’s point of view, but  mainly Harry’s opinion.)

·          Library books are not to be taken outside the school, said Snape. Give  it to me. Five points from Gryffindor.

He’s just made that  rule up, Harry  muttered angrily as Snape limped away. Wonder what’s wrong with his leg? (1) Oh,  are you really truthful Harry? Aren’t you the one inventing the fact Snape  has invented a rule? After all, there ARE books in libraries that shouldn’t  be taken outside on the grounds; there even are some which can’t be taken out  of the library. Don’t you get a pass from the librarian when borrowing one?  If you did, you should have shown it to Snape. 2) I think we touch something  important. When I’ve been completing the excel sheet about Harry’s  wrongdoings and the punishments he received, I have created a column named “Usual  protocol”, which is based on either Hogwarts’ clearly stated rules or how  professors would deal with such actions and punish similar offenses. I have  found something obvious… but very important: we don’t know all of Hogwarts’  rules. Hogwarts is quite a unique school, we can’t always apply our own rules  to it. Because Harry – and the reader – doesn’t know the rules, we cannot  always know whether Harry has effectively broken a rule, how serious the  wrongdoing was, what punishment should be associated with it. Meaning that we  can only base our theories on the professors. And here comes the problem: the  (un)fairness of a professor’s punishment cannot be appropriately judged based  on their kindness or how much the narrator likes them. Which is precisely  what the books seem to do. To know if what Snape has done is unfair, we constantly have to take distance from  Harry’s many, many biased words and  suggestions and lack of info and misdirection – like the “for no reason at  all” concerning the penalty for the Puffs – to wonder if Snape’s punishment  truly is wrong… and if Snape really just wanted to “find excuses”. The book  is an example of how difficult and sometimes impossible it is: because sometimes  we don’t know the rules of Hogwarts, and often we don’t know the punishments  they deserve, we cannot truly know if, as Harry says, Snape just “made that  rule up”, if he abuses the punishment… or if it is the complete opposite.)

·          Dunno, but I hope it’s really  hurting him, said Ron bitterly.  (Harry seems to understand Snape badly; but it seems to apply the other way  around as well: Snape might get a wrong idea of Harry and  misunderstand/misinterpret him. Ron & Quirell relish in Snape’s pain of  having his leg mangled.)

·          He wanted Quidditch Through the Ages  back, to take his mind off his nerves about tomorrow. Why should he be afraid of Snape? (Ah, indeed. Harry tries to get  rational.)

·          Rather you than me, they said together, but Harry had an idea that Snape wouldn’t refuse if there were other  teachers listening. (So either teachers are close to Snape, or it’s just  Harry’s imagination & lack of trust in adults expressing themselves. It  can also be explained in how the Durlseys were never fair to Harry and how  Hagrid dismissed Harry’s concerns about Snape.)

·          He pushed the door ajar and peered inside – and a horrible scene met his eyes. (Horrible because of the mangled  leg? Or horrible because of Snape and Filch? Why doesn’t Snape go to Pomfrey  – does he have issues with her? How come the closest person the local Squib  has is Snape?)

·          Snape and Filch were inside, alone. Snape was holding his robes above  his knees. One of his legs was bloody and mangled. Filch was handing Snape  bandages. (Oh Ron, yes, it did hurt him)

·          Blasted thing, Snape was saying. How are you  supposed to keep your eyes on all three heads at once? (First time Snape  curses.)

·          POTTER!

Snape’s face was twisted with fury as he dropped his robes quickly to hide  his leg. Harry gulped.

I just wondered if I could have my book back.

GET OUT! OUT!  (Bad memories maybe? Notice how he’s very private. I don’t think what upset  him was Harry seeing the wound, rather than his legs…)

·          And I’d bet my broomstick he  let that troll in, to create a diversion. (Well, as quick-witted you try to  be Harry, you just lost that broomstick.)

·          Hermione’s eyes were wide.

No – he wouldn’t, she said. I know he’s not very nice, but he  wouldn’t try and steal something Dumbledore was keeping safe. (“I know he’s  not very nice but he stays loyal to Dumbledore”.  Also, what do you mean “not very nice”? Is  it an euphemism, or is it true? Besides Harry’s first lesson, how is he “not  very nice”?)

·          Honestly, Hermione, you think  all teachers are saints or something, said Ron. I’m with Harry. I wouldn’t put anything past Snape.  But what’s he after? What’s that dog guarding? (Lol it reminds snaters when  they scream murder “you try to paint Snape as a saint!” Anyway, trying to  steal what’s down the trapdoor is a serious accusation because then Snape  would be a Dark wizard working against Dumbledore. Ron who distrusts Snape,  despising Hermione’s argument by saying “you think all teachers are saints”  aka you’re too gullible. But it’s Ron who’s in the wrong. As for Hermione,  it’s possible that after discovering the truth about Snape, she drew the  conclusion that she was right, and that Snape being “not nice” has nothing to  do with his true loyalties – maybe that’s too quick of a conclusion, because  it makes her think he couldn’t be a Dark Wizard. She seems to stand by that  idea though, because later, she insists that Snape killing Dumbledore doesn’t  make him evil, somehow… but maybe I’m going too far. Why does Ron distrust  Snape, him who was the first telling Harry not to care about Snape? Why does  he start to hate Snape – because of the book? Or only because, as he says,  he’s with Harry, and he came to believe what he says? Is it also because Ron,  being bullied along with Harry by Draco, came to hate Slytherin even more,  and thus hate their Head of House, who also happens to have once  congratulated Draco? Ron puts Harry’s word over Hermione, which shows his  loyalty but also how biased he is. What is that excuse Ron? Why wouldn’t you  put anything past Snape now, when Snape hasn’t done anything except for the  first class (which you dismissed) and the book? Their evidence is too little  to make such accusations. He directly assumes Snape tries to steal the  guarded thing, why? It’s here: Snape is not very nice, though we don’t get  anything more than the first Potions lesson and the book incident, but Ron  and Harry are quick to assume the worst of him. It’s blatantly unfair. And it  turns out they were wrong all along.)

·          He tried to empty his mind – he needed to sleep, he had to,  he had his first Quidditch match in a few hours – but the expression on Snape’s face when Harry had seen his leg wasn’t  easy to forget. (A furious expression? Why is it so unforgivable? Was it  that distorted – and does it come from how Harry has seen Snape a little too  much? Also, empty your mind… Occlumency.)

·          I knew it, Hermione gasped. Snape – look.  (Hermione changes her mind and tries to find a reason to call Snape the  culprit.)

·          He’s doing something – jinxing the broom, said Hermione.  (Assuming. They’re quite implying Snape’s trying to kill a child. We went  from doing something > jinxing pretty quick… Oh well. She didn’t know.)

·          She didn’t even stop to say sorry as she knocked Professor Quirell  headfirst into the row in front. Reaching Snape, she crouched down, pulled  out her wand and whispered a few, well  chosen words. (Why aren’t they warning a teacher??? Is Snape the only one  protecting Harry?)

·          It took perhaps thirty seconds  for Snape to realise that he was on fire. A sudden yelp told her she had done her job. Scooping the fire off him  into a little jar in her pocket she scrambled back along the row – Snape would never know what had happened.  (You better pray he doesn’t Legilimize you.)

·          It was enough. Up in the air, Harry was suddenly able to chamber back to his broom. (Why did Quirell stop  though, why didn’t he try to mutter another curse? Second, did Harry’s broom  stop jerking from the moment Quirell was knocked out, or 30 seconds after  Snape was put on fire? From the moment Snape realized he was on fire? Did he  stop staring at Harry from the moment he realized he was on fire, or before?  Was Snape still muttering when Quirell was knocked out? My theory is that  Dark Magic seems to linger even though Quirell hadn’t had the eye contact  anymore. The narrative forces to cast Snape as a potential villain… But it  leaves so many questions unresolved. And I just had the image of Snape  staring at Harry and muttering non-stop so  hard he set himself on fire. Did Snape think it was his magic leaking?  It’s a Snape going Eminem on Harry… Last thing: Snape seems to cast spells that are not just selected words but some  kind of prayer. I think he’s the only one who does that. Snape mutters  non-stop when he saves Harry from a Dark jinx, sings Draco’s wounds shut from  his Dark spell, mutters under his breath when he locks Dumbledore’s  Dark/Horcrux curse in his hand.

·          It was Snape, Ron was explaining. Hermione and I saw him. He was  cursing your broomstick, muttering, he wouldn’t take his eyes off you. (When  Snape searches a reason for Harry’s guilty looks and wonders if he’s been  breaking the rules, it’s shown as unfair. When the Trio makes quick  assumptions about Snape and search the reasons to cast him out, it’s somehow  okay. Snape muttering was as suspicious as Harry looking guilty twice… The  story might give clues as to why, but the narrative is quite unfair.)

·          Rubbish, said Hagrid, who hadn’t heard a word of what had gone  on next to him in the stands. Why would Snape do somethin’ like that? (A  nice parallel to when he dismissed Harry’s concerns over why Snape seemed to  hate him. By the time this happens, Harry doesn’t trust him enough anymore. If  Hagrid was wrong in thinking Snape hating Harry was rubbish, then we can  think that he’s wrong in thinking Snape innocent. The narrative outright  gives a reason for Hagrid to be misled: he hasn’t heard a word of what  happened next to him. But even if he had, would he think that Snape had  cursed the broom? Is Hagrid calling rubbish what Hermione and Ron saw, or  their interpretation of what they  saw? Either way, Hagrid’s question doesn’t focus on that. It focuses on the  reason Snape would curse the broom. But Harry already has one, one Hagrid  dismissed earlier: Snape hates Harry. It is logical and fair to think that  someone hating you wants you ill… But how the book persists and goes out of  its way to cast Snape as the villain before leading us here is unnerving.  They’re always expecting the worse out of Snape. Second, aren’t the kids more  terrified than that to think Snape tried to kill Harry? Why isn’t any teacher  leading an investigation? Even Hermione who loves teachers doesn’t think to  ask help from Flitwick or Dumbledore or anything, when they speaking about their own teacher trying to kill their 11  yo friend.)

·          I found out something about him, he told Hagrid. He tried to get past that three-headed dog at Hallowe’en. It bit  him. We think he was trying to  steal whatever it’s guarding. (Harry uses a conclusion as his first  explanation. He could have said “I’ve found him limping and his leg was  mangled, torn off, and he mentioned the Cerberus while talking to Filch.”  Instead he says directly “he’s been trying to get past the dog”. Maybe I’m digging too deep but… well, it makes  me feel uneasy.)

·          Hagrid dropped to teapot. How do you know about Fluffy? He said.

Fluffy?

Yeah – he’s mine – bought him off a Greek chappie I met in the pub las’ year – I lent him to  Dumbledore to guard the – (Did Quirell say he was Greek, or does he have a  Greek accent/does he speak Greek? Hagrid doesn’t ever mention that Snape’s  role is to protect whatever’s down there. It could have divided the readers  with more interpretations if he had done: some would think that explains  Snape’s presence near the dog and maybe they’re exaggerating, some would  think that’s really dangerous to have a reason to approach Fluffy. Instead  the book AGAIN tries to cast Snape as the villain. Hagrid would rather talk  about Fluffy that explaining Snape’s role. Well, he’s right to be concerned…  but he could have said the info later. Oh, and Hagrid, more than drinking “amber  liquid” in front of Harry and the Dursleys, more than being called/suspected  a drunkard by Draco, talks about he plays in pubs. Is this the fate that  awaits those who are expelled from Hogwarts, along with Squibs?)

·          Rubbish, said Hagrid again. Snape’s a  Hogwarts teacher, he’d do nothin’ of the sort. (Weak excuse Hagrid… Quirell  was a teacher as well. 3rd time you said Rubbish, and 3rd  time’s the charm I guess.)

·          So why did he just try and kill Harry? Cried Hermione. (Assumptions…)

·          The afternoon’s events certainly seemed to have changed her mind about  Snape. (But she does say “I knew it” as though she was already suspecting him  during Quidditch?)

·          I know a jinx when I see one, Hagrid, I’ve read all about them! You’ve got to keep eye contact, and  Snape wasn’t blinking at all, I saw him! (Hermione… you’re wrong. Reading in  books doesn’t make your assumptions right, it’s not enough. It’s so… arrogant  on your part. You’re only a first year dammit. Haven’t you read about jinx  counters???)

·          I’m tellin’ yeh, yer wrong! Said Hagrid hotly. I don’t know why  Harry’s broom acted like that, but Snape wouldn’t try an’ kill a student!  Now, listen to me, all three of yeh – yer  meddlin’ in things that don’t concern yeh. It’s dangerous. (Or yes it  concerns them, at least the attempted murder. Why is Hagrid convinced Snape  wouldn’t try to kill a student? Why does he seem upset when the Trio accuses  Snape? Does it have to do with how he seems to know what happened to Snape,  or is it because Dumbledore trusts Snape, or is Hagrid done with them? Also,  Hagrid is the first Snover that defends Snape against Snaters. Isn’t that  ironic.)

Chp 12 - Quidditch

·          Worst of all were Professor Snape’s classes down in the dungeons, where their breath rose in a mist  before them and they kept as close as  possible to their hot cauldrons. (1) cauldrons are dangerous for  children, Potions shouldn’t be taught at all to them, damn Wizarding world,  2) it’s not logical. The dungeons are underground and thus isolated from the  wind and the cold weather outside. They’ve got a lake near them to regulate  the temperature through the stones, better than winds in the badly isolated  towers. The dungeons, being isolated, should be cool and even a little warm.  After hours of heating cauldrons with fire, the classroom should become hot  enough for the day. But alright: Harry has Potions in the morning, as it  takes place after breakfast for one or two hours before they can go see  Hagrid on Fridays, and thus the classroom hasn’t been heated yet. But isn’t  it such a good coincidence Snape’s class has another reason to be called the worst? Though why don’t wizards  leave magical fires to warm up? Don’t they have a time-system that’d create a  fire around 30 minutes before the first students come into the classrooms?  Don’t they have instant warming charms? Why don’t they teach/spell them on  students? Leaving a fire all night unsupervised in a Potions classroom seems  dangerous enough, but they’ve got magic and spell! Why are the wizards so dumb  and unpractical?!)

·          Ron dived at Malfoy just as Snape came up  the stairs.

WEALSEY!

Ron let go the front of Malfoy’s robes.

He was provoked, Professor Snape, said Hagrid, sticking his huge hairy  face out from behind the tree. Malfoy was insultin’ his family.

Be that as it may, fighting is against Hogwarts rules, Hagrid, said Snape silkily.  Five points from Gryffindor, Weasley, and be grateful it isn’t more. Move along, all of you. (EXACTLY. Also  he calls him Hagrid J)

·          I hate  them both, said Harry. Malfoy and Snape. (BUT SNAPE WAS RIGHT THOUGH. The  problem is that Snape hasn’t punished Malfoy. We all know though that’s not  something he can do, strategically speaking (Draco being Lucius’ son).

·          Because how else were they going to find out what Snape was going to  steal? (They aren’t alerting the other teachers, oh my God… What do they  think that can do against a gown-up Wizard who knows Dark Magic? Ron and  Hermione shouldn’t have issues about trusting adults, but they still don’t  ask the help of a Professor. I can’t believe it could just be because of  Hagrid. They could know Hagrid was a bit gullible, but other teachers like  McGonagall or Flitwick? If they don’t ask the other teachers – although  previously Harry thought that Snape would be milder near other teachers and  so those teachers could defend him – is it because they know they’re too  close to Snape, meaning Snape has made friends with the other professors in  the end? Also, Hermione, when you’re searching for a book, don’t you know  Accio, don’t you have any reference to it? Can’t you use Accio Books of  Nicholas Flamel, or ask Mrs Pince? Or are we admitting you don’t know things  and thus can’t recognize Dark Magic from afar?

·          [Harry and Ron] were plotting ways  of getting Malfoy expelled, which were fun to talk about even if they wouldn’t work. (Imagine if  they want Malfoy expelled after his pathetic belittling, then there’s every  right for Snape to want to expel the Marauders; except it wasn’t “fun”. Plus  Malfoy too had tried to expel Harry with the fake duel, maybe with the bought  broom, and maybe with the Remembrall taunt.)

·          You asked me to come directly to  you, Professor, if anyone was wandering around at night,  and somebody’s been in the library – Restricted Section.

To his horror, it was Snape who replied.

The Restricted section? Well, they can’t be  that far, we’ll catch them. (Hm…  Interesting. Why is Filch precising this – is it because it’s a new  precaution taken for Harry?

Chp 13 – The Mirror of  Erised

·          Snape’s refereeing this time, and he’ll  be looking for any excuse to knock points off Gryffindor!

We’ve just got to make sure we play a clean game, so Snape hasn’t got an excuse to pick on  us. (Snape is described as unpleasant because he applies the rules  strictly and punishes easily if they’re not respected; but here, it’s not a question  of Snape punishing them without a valid reason – contrary to what’s going to  be said later. It’s really “looking for excuses” to give penalties… but are  they being fair though? They’ve got nothing to fear if they respect the  rules.)

·          Which was very well, thought Harry, but he had another reason for not  wanting Snape near him while he was playing Quidditch.

·          Harry told the other two about Snape’s sudden, sinister desire to be a Quidditch referee. (This is funny)

·          The idea of overtaking  Slytherin in the House Championship was wonderful, no one had done it for  nearly seven years, but would they be allowed to, with such a biased referee? (Hypocrite. You dare say that after  you got your broom, your bent rules, a biased commentator and a referee that was staring at Flint?)

·          Harry didn’t know whether he was imagining it or not, but he seemed to keep running into Snape  wherever he went. At times, he even wondered whether Snape was following him, trying to catch him on his own. (Ironic because it seems Snape’s  following Harry to protect him in case Quirell tries to find Harry on his  own.)

·          Potions lessons were turning into a  sort of weekly torture, Snape was so horrible to Harry. (How?  And why only now?)

·          Could Snape possibly know they’d found out about the Philosopher’s  Stone? Harry didn’t see how he could – yet he sometimes had the horrible feeling that Snape could read minds.  (Harry will have the same feeling at the beginning of CoS. Is Snape reading  Harry’s mind? Is he becoming horrible because of stress, because of spy duty,  because he sees that Harry starts to loathe him and judges him unfairly?  Snape is horrible to Harry, but how? Is it Harry’s perception – standing in a  room near the one you think tried to kill you, despising Slytherin, looking  carefully for signs Snape is biased? There’s no example of what “horrible  things” Snape is doing to Harry, how are we supposed to believe it hasn’t  anything to do with Harry’s own, exaggerated and unfair bias? Those words, “turning into a sort of weekly torture”, are sandwiched between Harry unable to understand Snape’s actions,  getting paranoiac and misinterpreting them, and a feeling that Snape can read  minds – which is true, but remains a feeling mingled with paranoia and guilt.  How to trust Harry’s point of view, especially when you read “Snape was so  horrible to Harry”, which seems too weak to believe? There are constant  attempts in the book to demonize Snape, from Harry or from the story aka bad  luck, these words are strong, but too tricky/unable to be used because  they’re plunged in a context of complete anti-Snape bias.)

·          Finish the game before Snape  can favour Hufflepuff too much. (Ah? So now it’s not just favouring  Slytherin, it’s trying to favour Hufflepuff? As if making Gryffindor lose was  more important than making Slytherin win – or is it because if Gryffindor  loses against Hufflepuff and Slytherin wins against Puff then it’ll make up  for losing  against Gryff? Plus saying  that when Snape doesn’t ever give any points to anybody? And can’t really  punish children of DE without putting himself in risk? If you fear so much  about referee bias, why don’t you hire a second referee?)

·          Perhaps that was why Snape was  looking so angry as the teams marched on to the pitch, something that Ron  noticed, too. (Ah, Dumbledore in the stands – though why wasn’t he there last  time when surely he suspected Quirell – you think Snape was angry about THAT)

·          I’ve never seen Snape look  so mean, he told Hermione. (It’s  to ward off the Death Eaters)

·          Snape had just awarded Hufflepuff a penalty because George Wealsey had hit a Bludger at him. (Okay, so in  real life, it’s red card and instant ejection from the game. Also I’ve read  that if you were in a real competition, you’d get fined and suspended. If  your move was intentional, you’d go to anger management training. Considering  Snape’s also a teacher, if it was  intentional, then you’d get counselling/a report. He only awarded a penalty. They’re lucky they don’t have any rules  to eject a player for Quidditch. Though it means that players could  threaten/beat the referee without much consequences than a penalty.)

·          Snape awarded Hufflepuff another penalty for no reason at all. (I doubt that, after what just happened.)

·          Harry had suddenly gone into a spectacular dive, which drew gasps and  cheers from the crowd.

Come on, Harry! Hermione screamed, leaping on  to her seat to watch as Harry sped  straight at Snape.

Up in the air, Snape turned on his broomstick  just in time to see something  scarlet shoot past him, missing him by  inches. (I remind you that Snape was an ass at Quidditch before.)

·          As Gryffindors came spilling on to the pitch, he saw Snape land  nearby, white-faced and tight-lipped.  (Got a good scary moment I get it. Plus Gryff losing, and you being almost  hit twice, while probably receiving boo’s… Yeah.)

·          Snape spat  bitterly on the ground. (Salty)

·          He’d done it, he’d shown Snape…

·          He recognized the figure’s prowling  walk.

·          Oh, I thought we’d keep this private, said Snape, his voice icy. Students aren’t supposed to know about  the Philosopher’s stone after all. (WAIT – does Snape think Harry knew  about the Stone because of Quirell, that Quirell intended to have Harry  search it??? It’s linked to the passage where Harry wonders if Snape could  read minds and know that Harry knew about the Stone.)

·          We’ll have another little chat soon, when you’ve had time to think things over and decided where  your loyalties lie. (Theme of loyalty, ironic coming from a defected DE.)

·          Quirell would have done some anti-Dark Arts spell which Snape needs to  break through – (so ironic)

·          So you mean the Stone’s only safe as long as Quirell stands up to Snape? Said Hermione in alarm.

Chp 14 – Norbert the  Norwegian Ridgeback

·          Snape was sweeping about in his usual bad temper, which surely meant that the Stone was safe.  Whenever Harry passed Quirell these days he  gave him an encouraging sort of smile, and Ron had started telling people off for laughing at Quirell’s stutter.  (I wish they’d done that for Snape. I need Snape-appreciating fic)

·          You don’t understand,  Professor, Harry Potter’s coming – he’s got a dragon!

What utter  rubbish! How dare you tell such lies! Come on – I shall see Professor Snape about you, Malfoy! (McGonagall trust  Snape THAT much. Moody will also drag Draco to see Snape in GoF… after  McGonagall’s told him about this.)

Chp 15 – The Forbidden  Forest

·          I think I’ve got a good idea  of what’s been going on, said Professor McGonagall. It doesn’t take a genius  to work it out. You fed Draco Malfoy  some cock-and-bull story about a dragon, trying to get him out of bed and  into trouble. I’ve already caught him. I suppose you think it’s funny that Longbottom here heard the  story and believed it, too? (Werewolf prank… Maybe McGonagall heard the full  story from Snape… In any case, she herself says that feeding such story to  make a student break curfew is a disgusting act that merits punishment.  Though sending them into the Forest…)

·          [McGonagall:] Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do,  Potter. (Ahh… here we have evidence that students complaining about a  teacher’s choice is forbidden.)

·          Fifty? Harry gasped – they would lose  the lead, the lead he’d won in the last Quidditch match. (So… Houses can win  the House Cup… by winning points in Quidditch? Where a Seeker can win 150  points for catching a little ball? This points system is bullshit. It takes  forever for students to win them by studying. Also, retrieving 50 points from  3 students equals to 150, which is a lot… but which is only what a Seeker  wins. Oh, and apparently putting yourself in mortal danger from a troll is  only 5 points worth, but being out at night is 50? I think it’s because the  book assumes the reader makes the link that Hermione didn’t truly deserve  punishment as she hadn’t done anything wrong… But not in McGonagall’s eyes,  who believes her lie. It makes McGonagall incoherent and extremely unfair.  The book’s story is very badly made. Ah but – no – not even that. McGonagall  only retrieved 20 points from Malfoy + detention, so she’s taking 30 points  more away from Harry and Hermione for feeding false info – from what she  thinks, at least. But Neville? She thinks that Neville is quite innocent in  this affair – but then she retrieves 50 points from HIM? McGonagall retrieves  insane amounts of points.)

·          Now get back to bed, all of  you. I’ve never been more ashamed of Gryffindor students. (1)  guilt-trip, 2) are you sure?)

·          A hundred and fifty points lost. That  put Gryffindor in last place. In one night, they’d ruined any chance Gryffindor had had for the House Cup.  Harry felt as though the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. (Why do 150 points  suffice to ruin all chances to win, when they’ve still got a match against  Ravenclaw, and months before the end of term? Is Slytherin THAT MUCH in the  lead? Or is it a plothole – a failure in Rowling’s attempt to make the  punishment tragic, to dramatize it?)

·          Harry didn’t sleep all night. He could  hear Neville sobbing into his pillow  for what seemed like hours. (OMG McGonagall made Neville cry, retrieved  50 points from him when he was partially innocent, but of course Snape is the  worst, and Neville should only fear Bellatrix, and he made Hermione tear up…  Just look at what happened when McGonagall intervened.)

·          He knew Neville, like himself, was dreading the dawn. What would happen  when the rest of Gryffindor found out what they’d done? (Points system is  intrinsically based on common punishment. It uses pressure from the House  itself to force the members to respect the rules – pressure that can result  in ostracization, isolation, shaming, that puts students at risk of being  bullied. In one book, Hermione started to quite harass Harry and Ron about  that, and now it’s the whole House – worse, the whole school. The House which  also consists in students the age of attending high school. Wonderful.  Hogwarts is a shitty school.)

·          And then the story spread  (from Draco?): Harry Potter, the famous Harry Potter, their hero of two  Quidditch matches, had lost them all those points, him and a couple of other  stupid first-years.

Even Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff turned on him, because everyone had been  longing to see Slytherin lose the House Cup. (1) anti-Slytherin by 3  Houses, 2) even other Houses can blame/hate Harry. Hasn’t McGonagall figured  what would happen if she punished them this hard?)

·          Everywhere Harry went, people pointed and didn’t trouble to  lower their voices as they insulted  him. (Consequences of points system.)

·          Fred and George have lost  loads of points in all the time they’ve been here, and people still like them.

They’ve never lost a hundred and fifty points in one  go, though, have they? Said Harry miserably.

Well – no, Ron admitted. (So either the  twins were never caught, either their punishments were less severe. But then  we remember that the person said to punish them the most for their  shenanigans is Snape. Snape punished them, but they’re still liked by the  school – maybe it’s another instance of “I hate Snape and he’s punished you  so it must be unfair, I like you even if you break rules”. Snape punished  them, but he never went to retrieve 150 points, or at least enough points to  turn the Gryffindors against them. McGonagall’s punishment had far worse  consequences.)

·          He’d had it with sneaking around and spying.

·          But even Quidditch had lost  its fun. The rest of the team wouldn’t  speak to Harry during practice, and if they had to speak about him, they  called him “the Seeker”.

·          Hermione and Neville were suffering too. They didn’t have as bad a time as Harry, because they weren’t as  well known, but nobody would speak to  them either. Hermione had stopped  drawing attention to herself in class, keeping her head down and working  in silence. (Hermione and Neville in one go! Also peculiar formulation.  Hermione likes to “draw attention to herself”, or is it what people think  she’s doing? Related to the know-it-all scene.)

·          All the same, he’d have  gambled twelve Philosopher’s Stones that Snape had just left the room, and  from what Harry had just heard, Snape would be walking with a new spring in  his step – Quirell seemed to have given in at last. (Well, Harry, you lost  your bet.)

·          But we’ve got not proof! Said Harry. (Exactly)

·          Who do you think they’ll  believe, him or us? (The staff believes Snape, trusts him. He’s not out of  bounds)

·          It’s not exactly a secret we hate him,  Dumbledore’ll think we made it up to get him sacked. (Damn that tea’s hot)

·          Filch wouldn’t help us if his life  depended on it, he’s too friendly with  Snape. (The ancient DE is the closest to Filch. We assume it’s because  they’re both filthy greasy adults who love to punish students. We could also  consider Filch is a bad example of a Squib to set in school as it trains  students to hate and despise Squibs – we’ll see that in CoS from Ron and HBP  from Harry – which increases discrimination, even in the Light Side. Snape  befriending him is interesting…)

Chp 16 – Through the  Trapdoor

·          Snape made them all nervous,  breathing own their necks while they tried to remember how to  make a Forgetfulness Potion. (I  sense some pretty wicked sense of humour. Snape breathes on their necks –  probably to check their dangerous  cauldrons/potions – which is the same thing we’re told about Madam Pince  making Harry nervous near the Restricted Section. For all those who think  Madam Pince is actually Madam Prince.)

·          Anyway, we’ve never had any  proof Snape found out how to get past Fluffy. He nearly had his leg ripped  off once, he’s not going to try it again in a hurry. (Ah)

·          It’s sort of secret, he said,  but he wished at once he hadn’t because Professor  McGonagall’s nostrils flared. (I see Snape’s not the only one. He does  the same thing in GoF, although it’s noted he seemed to try and sniff Harry  out.)

·          ‘It’s tonight,’ said Harry, once he was sure Professor McGonagall was  out of earshot. ‘Snape’s going through  the trapdoor tonight. He’s found out everything he needs and now he’s got  Dumbledore out of the way. He sent that note, I bet the Ministry of Magic  will get a real shock when Dumbledore turns up.’

‘But what can we –’ (Snape hears this, he  might conclude Harry’s trying to break curfew again to go through the  trapdoor. Yet in this case, Why didn’t Snape wait on the Third Floor corridor  for Harry & Co?)

[…] Good afternoon, he  said smoothly.

They stared  at him.

·          Hanging around like this, people will think you’re up to something.  (People like you, Snape? Just like you did with the Quidditch book?)

·          Be warned Potter – any more night-time wanderings and I will personally make sure you are expelled.  Good day to you. (Greeted him  twice? Is it sarcasm/passive-aggressive? Is it just a threat as Snape should  know from Dumbledore that Harry is better safe at Hogwarts? But indeed, Snape  is not pleasant. Taunting on the Gryffindors’ points, threat of expulsion  (although McGonagall threatened her students in her first class) – I think  most of these are technically allowed but they put pressure on the student  and justifies the need to consult the parents. Although, now that I think of  it, if parents were complaining to Snape about what he just said, Snape could  very well say “Your son has broken Hogwarts’ rules by wandering around at  night and it does deserve expulsion  from Hogwarts; I’m giving him a warning because he talked about going through  a trapdoor at nighttime and he won’t just lose points for this next time”. He’s  justified and in his right. BUT… he only addresses this to Harry, which is  biased.)

·          Snape came out and asked what I was doing, so I said I was waiting for Flitwick, and Snape went out to get him, and I’ve only just got away. I don’t know where Snape went. (Good teacher behavior?)

·          He pocketed it to use it on  Fluffy – he didn’t feel much like  singing. (Oh, give me some more singing Snape)

·          Looks like a harp, said Ron. Snape must have left it there. (Snape the harp musician – his  long fingers of a Potions Master playing on the strings…)

·          It wasn’t ordinary fire  either; it was purple. At the same  instant, black flames shot up in  the doorway leading onwards. (Beautiful.  Associating purple and black with Snape by the way. I want fanart of Snape  with purple or black fire. But I have a question. Why didn’t Quirell take the  potion to go forward with him? He wouldn’t be able to go back through the  black flames otherwise. Or did he just go through the flames unharmed? How  did Dumbledore go through the black flames to save Harry – does this mean  there are spells powerful enough to go past the potion riddle?)

·          This isn’t magic – it’s logic – a puzzle. A lot of the greatest wizards haven’t got an ounce of logic,  they’d be stuck in here for ever. (Snape is the one who made a test that  everyone from wizards to Muggles can solve. Snape is the one associated with  Hermione. Did you know we can reverse-solve the riddle to find the 2-3  combinations which allow us to solve them with the riddle and Hermione’s  clue?)

Chp 17 – The Man with  Two Faces

·          Severus? Quirell laughed and  it wasn’t his usual quivering treble, either, but cold and sharp. Yes,  Severus does seem the type, doesn’t he? So  useful to have him swooping around like an overgrown bat. Next to  him, who would suspect p-p-poor st-stuttering P-Professor Quirell? (Open  evidence that you shouldn’t trust appearances… and to think Harry and Ron  were showing support for Quirell, not an ounce for Snape later…)

·          Another few seconds and I’d  have got you off that broom. I’d have  managed it before then if Snape  hadn’t been muttering a counter-curse, trying to save you. (If Snape  hadn’t acted, Harry would have died at 11.)

·          All the other teachers  thought Snape was trying to stop Gryffindor winning, he did make himself  unpopular… (Willing to make himself unpopular… Did they know what had  truly happened later? Grosse ambiance Snape)

·          Unfortunately, while everyone  else was running around looking for it, Snape, who already suspected me, went  straight to the third floor to head me off. (Did he suspect Quirell before or  after Dumbledore told him to be wary of him?)

·          And not only did my troll fail to beat you to death, that  three-headed dog didn’t even manage to bite Snape’s lef off properly. (1) I want leg-missing  veteran Snape. 2) Um, but there’s something weird. Did Quirell let the troll  lose so the professors would try to find the troll and he’d be able to see  what protected the Stone? But he didn’t need to, he could have spied the door  while everyone was sleeping, or eating, or something. Did he let the troll  loose as to beat Harry to death? But that assumes Harry would search for the  troll, which he wouldn’t have done if Hermione hadn’t needed help. In this case,  either Quirell/Voldy is an idiot, or they predicted Harrywould try to fight  the troll, on the sole assumption Harry would emulate his father. OR they  knew about Hermione crying in the bathroom, suspected Harry and Ron would try  to save her, and made their move from then on. But there are more effective  ways to kill Harry. You only need Harry being sent somewhere where he’d be  alone with Quirell/Voldemort and be offered to be either part of the Dark  Side or killed. 3) Did the dog mangle Snape’s leg during the troll event? But  his limping gets mentioned only later, when Harry and Ron hang out with  Hermione. Only in the films do we see Snape’s leg bitten near the troll. Plus  if Snape had interrupted Quirell near the dog and he had been bitten, why  wouldn’t Quirell use the opportunity to attack him, kill him or help the  Cerberus kill Snape? Quirell would have had the perfect crime. The Cerberus  could even have eaten Snape, and you’d have no way to tell Snape had been  stunned or something, AND Fluffy would have to be executed, leaving the Stone  defenseless for a time. Voldemort IS said to be merciless even to his  followers. Maybe Quirell saw what happened to Snape’s leg after the troll incident? That seems  the most plausible… Also a real school would have closed if a troll had been  threatening students like that, if Harry’s broom was attacked with Dark  Magic, nearly killing him, and if there was a dog able to bit off a teacher’s  leg accessible through the use of Alohomora.)

·          He does not forgive mistakes easily.  When I failed to steal the Stone from Gringotts, he was most displeased. He punished me… decided  he would have to keep a closer watch  on me… (What to think, then, when in HBP Snape, after Lucius’ punishment  in having his son put in almost-certain death’s way, says that Voldemort  “wasn’t pleased”…)

·          What I want more than  anything else in the world at the  moment, he thought, is to find the Stone before Quirell does. (And here  we have a MOST interesting passage. The object supposed to show you the  deepest, most desperate desire in the world can show a desire that appears AT  THE MOMENT. In a world that allows that for the deepest desire, then it  should allow that for the deepest fear… particularly Neville’s Boggart after  having poor interactions with Snape twice just before. I think it reinforced  the theory.)

·          But your mother needn’t have  died… she was trying to protect you…  (Lily tried to protect Harry. Snape tried to save him. And in the end, they  both did. Do we have to wonder why Snape has the Patronus of Harry’s mother?)

·          Professor Snape, Harry.

Yes, him –  Quirell said he hates me because he hated by father. Is that true?

Well, they  did rather detest each other. Not  unlike yourself and Mr Malfoy. And then, your father did something Snape could never forgive.

What?

He saved his life. (………)

What?

Yes… said  Dumbledore dreamily. Funny, the way  people’s minds work, isn’t it? Professor  Snape couldn’t bear being in your father’s debt… I do believe he worked  so hard to protect you this year because  he felt that would make him and your father quits. Then he could go back  to hating your father’s memory in  peace…

….

….

This is the  most disgusting thing I have read lately.

You said you  didn’t want to lie, Dumbledore?

You just did.  Horribly. And you know it. Just as you know the truth.

You know,  before, Harry could have sought Snape to talk with him and maybe, maybe, asked for forgiveness to have  wrongfully accused him.

It is  Dumbledore who sets Harry and Snape definitely apart.

He could have  told him that Harry’s father had tormented Snape so horribly he couldn’t ever  forgive him.

Snape’s  hatred, Hagrid’s hesitancy, Quirell’s admission that Snape and James hated  each other – all of these are buckled up with the message that he was  unfairly ungrateful to James, and a mean pathetic villain in the end.

The book ends  with the idea that Snape saved Harry not because he cared about his life, but  because he had a debt against a man that’s been presented as good until now. Meaning  Snape could still turn against Harry later.

The problem  is that Snape isn’t saving Harry to pay a debt to James. He’s saving him as  he wishes to extend Lily’s will and make her death not in vain. We could go  further and say that he wanted to truly change and repent.

Dumbledore  makes Harry think that Snape was kind of “forced” to pay back his debt for  James’ supposedly honourable action, and that he hated Harry because he hated  his father, as well as because he  was unwilling to save Harry.

In DH, we see  clearly that Snape is horrified with the idea of sending Harry to his death  “like a pig to slaughter”; in fact in CoS, Snape gets worried when he hears  that a student has been captured by the monster.

However,  these things are never openly acknowledged. Dumbledore is willing to present  James as a hero, while you have to dig through a lot to realize Snape became  one as well.

He never said  that he might not only hate James for being the one who saved him, but also  because, as Snape was forced to keep the truth of what happened to himself,  James was presented as a pure hero at heart and this info was used against  Snape by Lily who obviously started to defend the Marauders and mistrust  their victim. The only time the situation is explained is only in a book  where Harry fully antagonizes Snape: that James had no choice but to save  Snape if he wanted to save his friends and himself, and that it hadn’t been a  selfless act (at least not entirely). But since Snape is meant to be hated,  it’s easy to cast him in the wrong. Never is it said that if James hadn’t  saved Snape, Sirius would have turned a murderer, Remus a victim of his own  best friend’s plans, and James an accomplice of the murder, at least at fault  for failure in duty to rescue.

Do you have a  debt for someone whose friend put you in the very mortal situation forcing  them save you?

Dumbledore  compared the Marauders’ bullying against Snape to Harry and Malfoy when  Malfoy hasn’t done a quarter of what James did to Snape, and when that’s  something that borders between rivalry and unsuccessful harassment rather  than heavy abuse.

And we have  to keep in mind that the one who was the reason the info about why James had  to save Snape spread, the one who silenced Snape and forced the misunderstood  event, the one who participated in hurting him and having him bullied  relentlessly, the one who canonically gaslighted Snape, was Dumbledore himself.

Before, it  was a combination of mistrust, lack of information and misinterpretation, as  well as anti-Slytherin bias and fear for his life, that had kept Harry away  from Snape. Now, Dumbledore, by his lie of omission and obviously distorted  interpretation of Snape’s motives, has effectively cut Harry’s trust for the  professor who just spent the last year saving and protecting him. Snape’s  credit of his salvaging actions is robbed from him.

I don’t even  understand Dumbledore’s logic behind, other than trying to glorify James and  flatter Harry. The only thing he promised not to say was about Snape’s  allegiance to Lily. In its stead, Dumbledore spoke about a sort of allegiance  to James. Worse, instead of trying to mitigate Harry and Snape’s connections,  he impends it.

On one hand, as  we know from the Prince’s Tale, he tells Snape that he’s mistaken about  James’ son, that he only sees what he wants to see. Obviously he doesn’t want  him to hate Harry or to mistake him so much. On the other hand he tells that  same boy something that’s so… I’m sure there’s a proper name to it – so  biased and so open to wrong interpretations, so stamped with the purpose of  glorifying Harry’s father on the expanse of Harry’s personal protector, that  he won’t see any reason to make an effort to be less mutinous against his  teacher.

And yet,  after this entire book, the only confirmed thing that Snape has objectively  done wrong, was nagging and ridiculing Harry in his first class. To put some  context, McGonagall’s punishment had 2 times worse consequences against Harry  than what Snape ever did, and she put him in danger with someone she had  acknowledged irresponsible, unable to protect someone well – but she doesn’t  get any more hate from Harry because he feels like he deserved the punishment  and is genuinely hurt. Other than that, Snape’s actions were mostly justified  or in the norms – but instead of having Harry wonder how far he went to  antagonize Snape this last year and how wrong he was in doing so, he’s given  another reason not to do that: Snape hates him unfairly so there’s no need to  think things through, no need to make peace.

Dumbledore is  a catalyst, an actor, maybe THE reason, that Harry and Snape will keep hating  each other along the next books.

And you know  what? This plan backfires gruesomely when Albus has no choice but to make him  teach Harry Occlumency.

Dumbledore  broke Harry’s trust with his professor when it had a chance to spring, and  then, after Sirius’ death, he’ll again somehow make it Snape’s fault talking  about “some wounds run too deep”.

I get that it  is meant to make the author doubt about Snape’s true allegiances for the  future… But I think that even if Dumbledore had told Harry the true reason  Snape hated James and couldn’t seem to let go of the past, it would still  have allowed Snape to make Voldemort believe Dumbledore fell for his “lying”,  and accentuated hate against Snape when he’d kill Dumbledore, as it would  have given further clues to the reader to think that maybe James’ treatment  of Snape, being unforgivable, is a solid reason to think Snape doesn’t ever  want to work for the Light. It would have acted like a Snape’s Worst Memory,  except sooner.

Instead he  said “Snape couldn’t ever forgive James for having saved his life, he  couldn’t bear knowing that he had a debt to him”… and only that.

This is  Dumbledore in one of his cruelest, most manipulative and repulsive choices. I

I think I’ll  hate this passage from now on.

·          Harry tried to understand this but it  made his head pound, so he stopped. (See what I mean? Harry won’t try to  think things through. Well, after what Dumbledore said, you don’t even have  to bother really.)

·          Snape was shaking Professor McGonagall’s hand, with a horrible forced  smile. (Yeah… yeah, I would have used something akin to Occlumency if I  were at your place, to hold up the humiliating “downfall” of my own House  glorified by the rest of the school. Also notice how Harry reserved the  “Professor” title for McGonagall only. All ties are cut.)

·          He caught Harry’s eye and Harry knew at once that Snape’s feelings  towards him hadn’t changed one jot. This  didn’t worry Harry. (Why should he, huh? In the midst of this horrible  anti-Slytherin/pro-Gryffindor show no less?)

·          (They all got good marks.)  Even Neville scraped through, his  good Herbology mark making up for his  abysmal Potions one. (We didn’t have a single instance where Snape  bullies Neville here. Only Harry… in the beginning of the year. Not any other  instance after. Weak bully in HP1. Let’s see if it changes in HP2, in HP4, or  if one of the worst instances start in HP3, and we know why he would. Let’s  confirm a hypothesis. The hypothesis that Snape became really bullying mostly  because of the circumstances, such as his bullies returning at Hogwarts, or  Voldemort coming back.)

Conclusion

I don’t have any. I’m tired. I’ll make the posts with themes based on this alright? I hoped this proved insightful.

[pitviperofdoom]

It’s impossible for me to get into a fandom without coming up with an AU or two. Or ten. I’ve got several for TMA, and I’ve written for a few of them already. 

Under the cut is the beginning scene of the one that I’ve developed the most. I’ve been sitting on it for a while, and I don’t have enough to start posting on AO3, but I thought I’d share this here at least. 

Hope you guys like Head Archivist Martin!

***

When Martin received the e-mail summoning him to Elias Bouchard’s office at his earliest convenience, he thought, Well, that’s it then.

It was only a matter of time. Honestly, it was a miracle he’d made it this long. It was a miracle he’d made it in at all; he’d applied to the Magnus Institute almost on a desperate whim, because surely an academic institution would take the time to run basic background checks on new hires. But then he’d gotten a call back, and then he’d gotten a second interview, and then he’d been called in to fill out all the necessary paperwork, and that had been years ago, now.

And now here he was, staring at a formal message from his boss, requesting his presence for a meeting to discuss “his future with the institute”. And that could only mean one thing.

Of course, Martin thought distantly as he typed out some generically polite response. All things come to an end eventually. It might be a stretch to say all good things come to an end, because sometimes he wondered if this job really was a good thing, if the stress of waiting to be caught in his lie was worth it when he still had to stretch his funds to cover rent and food and Mum’s care and scrape together a rainy-day fund for any inevitable disasters.

Martin got up from his desk, half-heard Hannah’s greeting as he passed her on the way out of the library, and numbly pointed himself in the direction of Elias’s office. Already his mind was racing through the math, calculating how long he could afford to hunt for a new job.

At some point he shook himself. It was no good to walk in panicking. He just had to stay calm, somehow. Be polite. Hope like hell that he’d made himself useful enough to at least broach the topic of listing someone as a reference.

…Yeah, right.

He was lost deep in thought—so deep, in fact, that he didn’t notice his coworker until he was already colliding into them.

Luckily, he was walking slowly enough that the crash wasn’t terrible, even if the other employee seemed to be in a hurry. It was more surprising than painful, and they both kept their footing, so… could have been worse, really.

“Sorry, so sorry—” Martin stammered out, stumbling back, and froze when his eyes landed on his coworker’s face. “O-oh. Morning, Jon.”

The look he got in return could have split rock. “Do try to watch where you’re going.”

Martin couldn’t help but wilt under the glare, for all that Jonathan Sims was nearly a head shorter than him. “Sorry, again,” he said. “Are… you alright?”

“Obviously I’m alright,” Jon retorted, already storming away.

“No, I know, I didn’t mean us crashing into each other, it’s just, I was wondering if…” Martin hesitated, with the growing dread of someone stepping into a minefield. Jon had paused but was looking increasingly impatient, so Martin ripped the bandage off. “I mean, are you alright, work-wise?” Jon’s scowl deepened. “It’s just, if you ever need—I dunno, an extra set of hands, or—” Jon left without a word.

“Guess not,” he muttered, mentally kicking himself. It was stupid to offer anyway, when he was probably minutes away from being let go.

Something about literally running into Jon had knocked his growing nervousness off balance, and he was almost paradoxically calm when he knocked on Elias’s office door. It was mostly open already, but it seemed the polite thing to do.

“Ah, hello, Martin.” Elias’s voice, calm and clipped though it was, brought the nervousness rushing back. “Close the door behind you, if you don’t mind.”

Martin did as he was bade, then took the chair that Elias indicated for him and tried not to fidget. “You, er, wanted to see me?”

“Yes, of course.” Across from him, Elias shuffled papers that Martin was too nervous to look at. “It’s a matter of some urgency, so thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Of course,” Martin said, trying not to fidget. He opened his mouth to say something else, couldn’t think of anything, and closed it again.

“You’ve been with the institute for about six years now, haven’t you?” Elias went on.

“A-almost, yes.” Martin replied, heart pounding in his throat. Distantly he wondered if Elias could hear it.

“Good, good. As I said in the e-mail, I was hoping to discuss your future with—”

“Have I done something wrong?” Martin blurted out, and immediately regretted it. For a moment he longingly imagined vanishing into thin air just to escape the situation. Or a hole opening up underneath him, maybe.

Elias raised an eyebrow at him. “If there’s anything you can think of…?”

“I mean, the wording was a bit ominous,” Martin stammered out. “So I was just wondering if—if there was something wrong… with how I was doing things?”

“Hardly, Martin,” Elias replied, and the relief that flooded through Martin made him light-headed. “Quite the opposite, actually. I was more than satisfied during your last performance review, and you’ve yet to give me any reason to change my mind.” Elias leaned forward, hands clasped neatly in front of him. “I’m sure you’ve heard about… recent developments, with Gertrude Robinson.”

“The head archivist? Y-yes.” Against all odds, he did know about recent developments with Gertrude Robinson, namely that no one had seen her in a while. She was already a reclusive woman—Martin had only met her twice and seen her from afar a few times besides that—but lately she seemed to have vanished outright.

Martin wasn’t close with anyone at the institute, either in the library or elsewhere, but that didn’t mean he didn’t hear the gossip. It didn’t mean he didn’t notice things, like the lack of people coming in to give statements. Or how dark and still the Archives had been over the past week or so.

Or how sullen and angry Jon had been, for about as long.

“Well, work in the Archives is never done, and unfortunately she was already somewhat… understaffed,” Elias went on. “Since the beginning of her absence, I’ve been reviewing employee files in the hopes of finding a replacement.”

“Oh,” Martin replied. In the back of his mind he thought, No, absolutely not, he can’t possibly mean…

“Simply put, Martin, I think it would be best for the position to go to you.”

“Oh,” Martin repeated. “M-me? Really?”

“I can think of no one better for the job,” Elias said with a thin smile.

“Really.” Martin struggled to keep most of the disbelief out of his tone. “No one better? Not… I-I don’t know, the person who’s already been working in the Archives for the past year?” He swallowed, with some difficulty thanks to his dry throat. “I… sorry, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful? But I thought… I thought Jon would replace her, as her assistant… since he’s already been working under her, a-and he’d know the archives better, and…” His voice trailed off.

“I understand,” Elias assured him, his smile turning almost friendly. “And you’re right, I did strongly consider him for a time. But, his duties were largely research and clerical work for Gertrude, and he unfortunately lacks a background in library and information science.” He indicated one of the papers in front of him—a familiar CV, Martin realized. His CV. “You, on the other hand, have been working in our library for the past six years, and you listed a previous job at a records repository.”

“Oh, right,” Martin said faintly. What his CV didn’t say was that he’d been in the night cleaning crew, not the accessions department.

“I understand if it feels a bit daunting, but don’t worry,” Elias went on. “I have great faith in you, Martin. And as you said, Jon’s familiar with Gertrude’s system, so you’ll have his expertise to fall back on.”

Oh God. Oh God, if he took this job then he’d be Jon’s boss. Unqualified, clueless, and living a lie, and Jon—with actual experience and competence and an existing predisposition to dislike him—would be his subordinate.

Oh, the thought made him ill.

Martin took a deep breath. He’d just have to turn it down. There was no upside to taking it; he was technically unfit for the job he already had, and he certainly wasn’t prepared to be anyone’s boss, especially not Jonathan Sims in the archives of the Magnus Institute. If he took this job, they’d find him out for sure.

“So, if that’s settled, we may as well discuss a pay raise and expanding your benefits,” Elias went on lightly. “These things come with a promotion, of course.”

Martin froze in his seat, uncomfortable and stiff in spite of its padding.

He thought of the bills on his kitchen counter, and the perpetually empty rainy-day fund. He thought of his mother, in that care home in Devon that wasn’t going to pay for itself.

“A-alright,” he said quietly, slumping a little in defeat. His eyes were fixed on that damned CV, and because of that he almost missed the look of calm satisfaction in Elias’s eyes.

Twenty minutes later, Martin wandered back out of Elias’s office in a daze. His feet carried him not back to the library, but down to the archives where the air turned dusty and stale. He wasn’t sure what he was there for. Maybe to apologize? Jon must have heard. Elias must have told him first, and that was why Jon was so irritated with him when they ran into each other.

Not that it mattered, in the end. Jon was nowhere to be found down there, and Martin could only search for so long before the air of the place got to him and he fled back to the library.

Even down there, away from the rest of his coworkers and well away from Elias Bouchard’s office, Martin couldn’t shake the feeling that every eye in the institute was on him, just waiting for him to screw up.